


The Blackthorn Tree

by boorishbint



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Angst, Belligerent Romantic Tension, Clairvoyance, European Folklore, Gen, Ghosts, Hallowe'en Fic, Horror Elements, M/M, Now with the amazing art included, Or rather belligerent flirting, Possession, Slow Burn, hop on everyone it's the 1920's in moominland, protective moominpappa, someone has a crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2020-11-27 22:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20955830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boorishbint/pseuds/boorishbint
Summary: Lost and in the dark, the crew of the Oshun Oxtra need to take refuge or they'll never find their way back to the harbour.But the Joxter won't step into the only house for miles. He stands outside, his paw tight in Moomin's and Moomin can't help but feel something is very, very wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joxpapa won the poll, so here we go!
> 
> Gorgeous cover by the talented @girnyo, thank you so much! ♡ 

Cover @[girnyo](https://girnyo.tumblr.com/post/619843776001835008/lost-and-in-the-dark-the-crew-of-the-oshun-oxtra)

*/

They've been walking for so long, Moomin thinks he may have calluses on his calluses. 

Their adventure has taken quite the turn- they’d only wanted to see if they could find a very particular set of caves that were said to have treasure woven through the rock. It wasn’t the treasure that tempted them, mind, but rather the appreciation of such a magnificent natural marvel if it were to exist.  
  
(Alright, if Moomin were to be honest, he thinks there may have been a smidge of temptation for whatever the treasure was said to be, but only on the Muddler’s part! Which hardly counts).  
  
So they’d followed directions given until mooring upstream of a wide river that curled into a fine forest. And it was this fine forest that they’d gone and gotten themselves lost in.  
  
Hodgkins had tried everything. He’d consulted his map, checked his compass. But the trees were so close together and their whispers so loud they’d just caused the compass to spin round and round, never pointing one way or another.  
  
Not even the Joxter could help as he had been unable to see the stars and they’d spent days walking through the thick wood, growing more and more hungry and less and less sure they’d ever find a way out.  
  
In the end, it was the Muddler who’d saved them, though not by anything resembling skill. Or even purpose. Either way, all that had mattered was that he’d got them all running and running for so long, and for so far, they finally broke free of the forest near an hour ago.  
  
Now, they walk a road in a line; Hodgkins leads as he is won’t to do as Captain and the Muddler last, as is only fair for having them all wrong in the first place. Moomin walks after the Joxter, eyes down on the damp earth and thinking about his poor feet.

But then, the Joxter stops suddenly and in doing so, Moomin walks right into the back of him.  
  
For such a scrawny, bony creature, the Joxter stands quite steady and Moomin bounces right off him as though he were some great, thick tree. Moomin lands on arse, right into the thick and horrible mud.  
  
‘Oh, for _ goodness-! _ Joxter!’ Moomin snaps, groaning with disgust as he lifts his paws from the ground. They’re black with shiny dirt. ‘What in the name of all that’s sensible are you doing?’  
  
The Joxter doesn’t answer, but Muddler comes over to help as he is always so good to. Well, sort of- he offers Moomin one paw while the other holds fast to the small trinket box he happened to bring with him on their journey. It rattles.  
  
Hodgkins offers no help, merely keeps humming and hawing over the map in his paws.  
  
‘I’d say we’d do a better day of it if we took this path rather than the road.’  
  
‘What path?’ Moomin asks, as there appears to be nothing but the road they’re on.  
  
It’s wide and well-travelled with two distinct trenches from years and years of coach and wagon wheels. Grass sprouts down the middle and on one side stands the wretched forest they’ve just come from, and the other a large expanse of flatland that mists, hiding the end from view.  
  
It’s out there that the Joxter appears to be looking. Now Moomin looks a little better himself, he sees that something doesn’t seem quite right with the fellow.  
  
(Not that there is ever very much right with him to begin with).  
  
The Joxter stands in the middle of the road with his tail perfectly still from where it slips out beneath his coat; Moomin has never seen it still, even in his short few weeks of knowing the Joxter as he does but more than that, he’s never seen it like this either. It’s puffed up like a poor critter scared, all the fur standing on end.  
  
‘Joxter?’ Mooomin asks, waving the Muddler off from where he hovers. ‘Joxter, good fellow, are you well?’  
  
The Joxter doesn’t answer. He’s looking out over the crooked and ramshackle fence between the road and the flatland, in profile against the burnt butter colour of the sunset sky. Not even his whiskers, or what Moomin can see of them, are twitching.  
  
‘Joxter, what’s the matter?’ Hodgkins asks, looking up from his map. The Muddler makes a high pitched whimper.  
  
‘Oh, no,’ he says, nervously hopping from one foot to the other. ‘He’s having a Foreboding, isn’t it?’  
  
‘Don’t be silly, I’m sure it’s nothing. We can't be as unlucky as all that,’ Hodgkins says, flapping the map and walking up to the Joxter himself. ‘Right, Joxter?’

The Joxter doesn’t answer. Moomin comes closer, unsure what to say though he can’t help but feel he should say something. Moomin may not know the Joxter that well yet, but a crewmate is a mate all the same.  
  
‘Joxter, are you all right?’ he says again, awkwardly raising a paw and stopping just short of touching. Just as well, Moomin thinks, frowning at his paw. The Joxter isn’t the most fastidious of creatures but even he wouldn’t be keen on a big, muddy pawprint to his coat surely?  
  
‘There’s not a blessed thing wrong with him we can’t solve for ourselves,’ Hodgkins says but Moomin isn’t very convinced of that. ‘Look out there, past the mist.’

Moomin and the Muddler do, following where the Joxter looks himself. The sky is very dark that way. 

‘There’s rain coming,’ Hodgkins says with a frown, before looking back to his map. ‘Which means we’ll be all the better taking the shorter route. This road is a daft thing, really. Goes all the way around that field for no reason it seems.’

Moomin looks at the flatland himself and feels the strangest sense of… well, foreboding. Moomin shakes himself quickly. Goodness, it seems the Joxter’s nonsense is contagious.

‘How long if we stay on the road, uncle?’ the Muddler asks, adjusting the pan on his head where’s slipped. ‘I don’t much fancy being caught in the rain.’

‘No, just a Púca's trap suits you,’ Hodgkins says not unkindly but the Muddler flushes all the same, ducking his head down into his scarf. ‘If this map is scaled right, it’ll take us near two days to make it to the closest town by the river that could ferry us back to the Oshu Oxtra with not a blessed soul between here or there.’ 

‘Two days?’ Moomin says, completely distracted from the Joxter by this horrible news. ‘We don’t even have enough food left in our packs for the day we’re in! And I am not going back in there!’  
  
_In there _being the wretched, Púca-infested wood.

‘Precisely,’ Hodgkins says, folding his map up and walking with purpose towards the fence. ‘Which is why we need to take the path through the flatland.’  
  
‘No,’ the Joxter says, the first time he’s spoken in some time and Hodgkins huffs, as surprised as Moomin it seems. ‘No, we can’t go that way.’  
  
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Why on earth not?’  
  
‘It isn’t safe,’ the Joxter says and Hodgkins puts his paws on his hips, a look of consternation on his face.  
  
‘You’ve had a Foreboding then?’  
  
‘No. Maybe. Perhaps,’ the Joxter replies, most unhelpfully Moomin must admit and Hodgkins shares a look with him. Moomin shrugs. ‘Look there.’  
  
Look they do, following where the Joxter points at the knotty brambles at a break in the fence. Only then does Moomin realise this must be the path Hodgkins is speaking of; though _ path _ is a very generous term for it. The brambles are wild, tangled things and they spill over the gap altogether; they’ll have to walk through them to get further.  
  
‘Brambles?’ the Muddler says, stepping closer and bending low to look. ‘What’s wrong with brambles?’  
  
‘Not the brambles, you nit. The tree!’  
  
The three of them tilt up, away from the brambles and along the trunk of the tree they grow beneath. It has dark wood and round, blue berries that swell beneath snow white flowers. Moomin walks up to it, curious and gets just close enough to see the branches spindle with many sharp thorns before something grabs him by the shoulder, tugging him back.  
  
The Joxter’s paw is tight and he nearly pricks through Moomin’s pelt with his claws. Moomin rolls his shoulder.  
  
‘Get off, will you! No need to get grabby!’  
  
‘Blackthorn,’ the Joxter says in a tone like the tree were the Groke herself come to visit them. ‘And no sister with it.’  
  
‘Sister?’ the Muddler asks and the Joxter nods, looking around once more. His expression is very wild, Moomin thinks.  
  
‘The May bush,’ he says, stepping between Moomin and the tree. He fidgets with the brim of his hat, as though to tug it down over his eyes but stopping himself. ‘They should grow together. But this one is alone. It’s a bad omen.’  
  
‘You don’t actually believe in things like omens, do you?’ Moomin asks and Joxter turns to look at him, eyes wide.  
  
_ Silly me, _Moomin thinks as he remembers who he’s talking to. Of course the Joxter believes in things like omens.

‘It’s a Bad Path,’ the Joxter says, turning to Hodgkins now. He says it with such seriousness Moomin can hear the title for what it is. ‘We shouldn’t take this way.’

‘The map suggests it’ll be at least half a day faster,’ Hodgkins replies but the Joxter looks far from convinced. His tail swings nervously, still fluffed up like a dandelion. 

‘We stick to the road.’

‘Oh, do we, now?’ Hodgkins says, standing up a bit straighter and he towers over the Joxter by a solid head, which is no small feat as the Joxter is tall himself. ‘Any other decisions to be made, Captain?’

The first break in the Joxter’s solemn mood appears as he turns his mouth, canine showing.  
  
‘Don’t call me that and don’t be so thick-skulled. It’s unbecoming.’

‘Well!’ Hodgkins whiskers bristle. ‘Do forgive me if I don’t take for manners the word of a ragamuffin Mumrik, but I think the question still stands over who exactly you think you are. Since when do you decide the way?’

‘You brought me to lead the way!’

‘I brought you to lead the way from storms!’

‘There is a storm!’ the Joxter replies, hackles rising and he steps closer. It’s all getting a touched heated now. ‘We stay on the road and take shelter in the wood come night.’

‘Come night?’ Hodgkins repeats, rubbing at his face with agitation. ‘Joxter, the sun is half-set already and who knows what else lives in that wood, we’ve had more than enough already!’ 

‘We’ll handle whatever crosses us if it is to.’

‘Handle it?’ Hodgkins repeats, more high-pitched. ‘Like we handled that Púca the other night?’

The Muddler makes a pathetic, wheezing noise and Moomin rolls his eyes. 

‘We got away, didn’t we?’ the Joxter says but Hodgkins scoffs. 

‘My nephew was near stolen to goodness knows where!’

‘But only near! Once it got a slap with his iron pot we were sorted!’ 

The Muddler looks to Moomin imploringly. Moomin grimaces, not entirely sure what the Muddler wants him to do. Muddler nods his head with great exaggeration towards the Joxter.

_ ‘Go on,’ _he mouths and Moomin grits his teeth.

_ ‘Why me?’ _he hisses back and the Muddler ruffles his ears, walking over to give Moomin a shove for good measure. 

_‘You’re the most practical one here. He’ll listen to you.’_

_'Why in blue blazes would you think that?’_ Moomin asks in a rushed whisper, astounded by the very suggestion that the Joxter might listen to anyone. Least of all him.   
  
While in the midst of their hushed argument, the Muddler and Moomin lose track of the Joxter’s with Hodgkins until a low but unfortunate hissing fills the air.  
  
Moomin looks over to see the Joxter is right up to Hodgkins now, teeth bared entirely and Moomin rushes forward.  
  
‘All right, all right! None of that!’ he says, putting both paws to the Joxter’s shoulder to try and tug him back. ‘You’re sensible creatures, aren’t you?’  
  
‘I am no such thing!’ the Joxter says, sounding quite offended indeed but at least that wretched hissing has stopped grumbling from the back of his throat. ‘But I am right and Hodgkins is being a daft fool!’  
  
‘Daft?’ Hodgkins sounds most scandalised. _‘Fool?’_  
  
‘Yes!’ the Joxter says, raising a paw under Hodgkin’s large nose. ‘As cotton-brained as a stuffed tortoise and twice as slow for it!’  
  
_‘What?_’ Moomin says, baffled but Hodgkins seems to take the insult for what it means.  
  
‘Think me slow, do you? At least I’m not the one turning my brain sour with marshmallow root and skullcap smoke!’  
  
Why this of all things, especially when true, should be the one to offend the Joxter most Moomin has no idea but it does all the same. He springs forward, dragging Moomin along with him.  
  
‘Is now really the time to be lopping the head off tall poppies?’ Moomin asks, gritting his teeth as the Joxter goes for Hodgkins again. This time, Moomin gets both paws around the Joxter’s waist and hoists him up, boots off the ground and everything. ‘That’s enough! Honestly, you’re like a kit with his first teeth! Can’t you be reasonable for one blooming minute?’  
  
‘I shall when Hodgkins gets his abnormally large head out of his equally sizeable-’  
  
‘Oi! Quit it!’ the Muddler says, deciding to help at last it seems and he gets himself between his uncle and where Moomin holds the Joxter aloft. ‘This isn’t helping!’  
  
Moomin gets one of the Joxter’s stupidly bony elbows to the snout and he has to agree. They’re all tired and they’re all hungry and that makes the worst of enemies of even very good friends indeed. And Moomin doesn’t think they’re quite that yet either.  
  
‘If my uncle says the path is the best plan, then it’s the best plan,’ the Muddler says stoutly and the Joxter stills in Moomin’s arms, which is a small comfort at least. ‘Even if it means getting rained on.’  
  
‘But the tree-’  
  
‘Oh, forget the sodding tree, Joxter!’ the Muddler says, uncharacteristically snappy and even Hodgkins looks surprised. ‘What’s one more thing to go wrong, eh? We’ll collapse with the hunger before we get much further and what good will any of it be then?’  
  
It’s a remarkably sensible point, so perhaps that’s what cools everyone down. Once confident the Joxter isn’t about to set his claws into poor Hodgkins, Moomin puts him back down. The Joxter stalks away as though burned, adjusting his hat and tail whipping. He doesn’t look at Moomin.  
  
‘Well then,’ Hodgkins says, brushing down his scarf. ‘That’s settled then. We take the path.’  
  
‘It’s not settled,’ the Joxter says moodily, crossing his arms and tilting his head in Moomin’s direction. ‘Moomintroll hasn’t had a say and since we’re all sticking our oar in anyway he may as well get one.’  
  
Everyone looks to Moomin, who manages a rather dignified _Uhhhhh. _  
  
‘What do you think, Moomintroll?’ the Muddler asks and Hodgkins scoffs.  
  
‘He thinks I’m right, of course! Moomintroll has a sharp wit about him and knows a good map when he sees one, don’t you, lad?’  
  
‘I think he can speak for himself,’ the Joxter says icily and when Moomin glances over, he’s still not looking at him. The Joxter’s bright eyes are on the blackthorn tree.  
  
‘I…’ Moomin starts, tugging nervously on the strap of his pack. ‘I think the less we have to travel the better.’  
  
The Joxter closes his eyes, mouth going into a thin line as though steeling himself. Moomin flushes, all his fur sticking on end as his pelt ripples with it but he doesn’t get much of a chance to say anything else as Hodgkins comes over to pat him on the shoulder.  
  
‘Very good! Let’s go then and be done with this whole sorry affair!’  
  
Hodgkins leads the way through the brambles, holding some back for the Muddler to follow after him. He stands where the mist just starts, fishing out his lantern as the Muddler pulls out his matches. Moomin and the Joxter are still on the road.  
  
‘I know a storm isn’t great,’ Moomin says, unsure exactly what to say as he so often is with the Joxter. ‘But it’s better than whatever is waiting for us in that wood.’

‘We can outrun what’s in the wood.’  
  
‘What do you think is in the flatland?’ Moomin asks, curious and he looks to the blackthorn tree again. It’s really quite a pretty tree and if the Joxter hadn’t said anything, Moomin might’ve thought it a May bush itself.  
  
When Moomin looks to the Joxter again, he sees that he’s walking to the other side of the road towards the wood.  
  
‘Joxter!’ Moomin calls, running after him. ‘You can’t go off on your own! Joxter!’  
  
The Joxter stops at the edge of the wood and bends down. Just as Moomin comes close, he stands up again and turns around.  
  
‘Here,’ he says, paws up to the strap of Moomin’s pack. Moomin watches as the Joxter pins a cluster of small, yellow flowers to the buckle. ‘Primroses. For protection.’  
  
‘Um. Thanks,’ Moomin says, raising an eyebrow. He’d rather his rifle if protection were the order of business, but he’d foolishly left it on the Oshun Oxtra. ‘I doubt I need a flower to stick up for me though. I’m quite tough, you know.’  
  
‘You’re soft,’ the Joxter says plainly and Moomin splutters, offended but the Joxter just walks past him towards the others and the path with more flowers in his paws. ‘Too soft, really.’  
  
‘Soft?!’ Moomin says, but the Joxter is already gone.  
  
Moomin stays a bit longer, frowning and grumbling to himself about how he is many things and soft is certainly not one of them. He looks down at the primroses, the pale petals and butter-coloured centre.  
  
‘I’m not soft,’ he says, half-tempted to toss the blasted things away but he stops himself. He thinks of the Joxter and how very strange he’d been; all puffed up and nervous. If it makes the Joxter feel better…  
  
Not that Moomin cares one way or another how the Joxter might feel, of course, but still, better to ease his mind, surely?  
  
It’s what any good crewmate would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Celtic mythology, winter starts when the Winter Goddess strikes the earth with a blackthorn stick and all the flowers die.


	2. Chapter 2

They’ve been walking a little ways and night has fallen. Between that and the mist, it makes for perilous walking with nothing but a fragile lantern between the lot of them.

Hodgkins stops them after a while, consulting the Muddler for some twine. Hodgkins starts to unravel it, tying one end to his own wrist as he hands the lantern to Muddler.

‘Won’t do for any of us to get lost,’ Hodgkins says, handing the twine to the Muddler again. ‘Add yourself to the line, son. Then Moomintroll.’

The Joxter is last in the procession now. He walks with his head down, hat over his face and scarf pulled up over his mouth. He looks like a bandit and Moomin wonders if he’s sulking. 

Moomin ties himself to the line before turning to the Joxter, offering it out. The Joxter doesn’t take it. 

‘Come on, don’t be a picklepuss,’ Moomin says, a little annoyed. ‘Hodgkins is right. You’re no good to us lost in this field.’

‘It’s no field,’ the Joxter says, a little muffled by his scarf and he looks up. Moomin is struck by how very dark his eyes are. ‘It’s a bog.’

‘A bog?’ Moomin looks around, trying to inspect the ground which indeed is black like turf. He swallows around the uneasiness that blooms. ‘Well, then. All the more reason to stay close.’

‘So if one falls he may drag the other in to drown, too?’ the Joxter says and Moomin groans, rubbing at his face. 

‘Must you be so morbid?’ Moomin asks, too hungry and tired now to even be truly annoyed. ‘No one’s drowning or bringing anyone down with them to the locker, all right? Just tie the bloody line.’

With that, Moomin tosses the line over and the Joxter catches it. He frowns, a very impressive thing on a creature with eyes as large and expressive as the Joxter and ties the end of the twine to his wrist. 

They walk a bit further and the mist gets lower as thunder rolls overhead. They’re going to run out of dry luck very soon, Moomin thinks, looking up. The sky is a like a great, black blanket shrouded over them. Not a star in sight. 

‘Is it-?’ Moomin starts, but stops himself. He wonders if perhaps it’s rude to ask but the Joxter comes up behind him, bumping shoulders. 

‘Is what what?’

‘Nothing,’ Moomin says, lying but the Joxter steps around him, walking backwards so they don’t halt the whole line of them.   
  
'Now, now, Moomintroll,' the Joxter says, slowing down so they come closer together. So close and with the wind behind him, Moomin can smell the staleness of his coat and the medicinal scent of clove oil. Moomin has seen the Joxter rub it on scrapes. 'Not like you to quit talking.'  
  
'Ha, ha,' Moomin says sarcastically, batting at the Joxter's shoulder. 'I was going to ask about the stars.'  
  
‘What about the stars?’  
  
‘Well, it’s rather more you and the stars than the stars themselves,’ Moomin continues, not at all sure why he should be embarrassed but he is all the same. ‘I was just wondering if it’s- I don’t know, hard for you. To not see them.’  
  
The Joxter blinks once, quite slowly and Moomin isn’t sure if that’s good or not. So he bumbles on, almost nervously and without purpose.  
  
‘Just it’s been so very long without seeing them at all, between the trees and now this,’ Moomin says, awkwardly waving his paws as he’s not sure what to do with them. ‘And you’re always looking at them on the Oxtra. I see you down by the stern, on your back and gazing. And you’ve been so glum, more so than the rest of us and I was just wondering if it was because of the stars. Or- well, the lack of the stars.’

Once that’s said, it seems whatever madness possessed Moomin in the first place runs out and he’s left feeling very foolish all of a sudden. He grunts in a manner most manly, (he hopes) and bustles on past the Joxter so at least he won’t have to look at him. The Joxter has a particular talent for making Moomin feel silly and he’s already feeling enough of that, thanks very much.  
  
The Joxter jogs up next to him, walking side by side. His shoulder brushes Moomin’s and gives him goosepimples under his pelt.  
  
‘I didn’t think you’d notice a thing like that,’ the Joxter says and Moomin huffs.  
  
‘Course I noticed. You’re very noticeable.’  
  
‘You think so?’ the Joxter asks, sounding a touch teasing and Moomin glares at him, askance. ‘I didn’t think you see much past that snout of yours. You have it buried in a book so often.’  
  
‘Only because you’re so very annoying that it makes you impossible to ignore,’ Moomin says gruffly and the Joxter laughs, which seems to catch them both by surprise.  
  
‘What about you though, dear Moonintroll?’ the Joxter says and to add insult to injury, Moomin fluffs up again. No one has ever called him _dear_ anything before, even in jest. ‘You’re just as fond of an open sky as I am, I know.’  
  
‘How do you know that?’ Moomin asks, curious as it’s certainly true but how would the Joxter notice such a thing?  
  
‘A travelling spirit always knows another when we meet,’ the Joxter says, sounding far wiser than Moomin knows him to be. It only serves to make Moomin more uncomfortable. ‘You are right though. It’s unpleasant to be without stars for so long but I suppose it only serves me right for relying on them to begin with.’  
  
‘Is that a bad thing?’ Moomin asks and the Joxter shrugs. ‘To rely on them, I mean.’  
  
‘To rely on anything too much is no different to having someone rely on you,’ the Joxter says and Moomin can’t make head nor tail of that as it is, never mind when the Joxter continues; ‘Better to rely on oneself and not be held responsible either way.’  
  
‘I see…’ Moomin says, very unsure but not that keen on pushing. It seems a pretty bleak view if it’s anything close to what Moonin can make of it. ‘So I’m right then. You are unhappy about the stars.’  
  
‘Is that the most important part?’ the Joxter asks him, whiskers twitching. ‘To be right?’  
  
‘Oh, forget I said anything!’ Moomin says, nettled and trying to walk ahead, but the Joxter’s legs are so much longer and all he needs to do is slope ahead and he’s right back to Moomin’s shoulder again. ‘If you’re miserable, you’re miserable.’  
  
‘It’s not just the stars,’ the Joxter says quietly. Moomin keeps his eye on the Muddler’s back ahead of him, trying to ignore the way the Joxter’s elbow grazes his own. ‘It’s this place. This path. We’ve made a bad choice.’  
  
‘Why do you think that? Because a tree told you so and there were no stars to argue against it?’ Moomin says sceptically, just resisting rolling his eyes. ‘Honestly, Joxter. You shouldn’t let such silly superstitions get into your head like that.’  
  
‘For someone so very clever, you’re really quite narrow-minded, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says with a sigh and Moomin bristles again.  
  
‘Thanks, mate. Full of knuckles, that one,’ Moomin says moodily and the Joxter doesn’t apologise for it. Which is typical.  
  
The Joxter stops then and Moomin turns to look, wondering why and proceeds to go right into the Muddler's back. Moomin nurses his snout where it hurts from the hard pot it’s hit, the Muddler being considerably shorter and thus in perfect height for his pot-cap to do damage.  
  
‘Am I cursed to be walking into the back of you all or something?’ Moomin grumbles, rubbing his nose and the Joxter comes up to him.

‘Perhaps you’d just do better to simply look where you’re going.’  
  
‘Listen, you-'  
  
‘Wait,’ the Joxter says, putting a paw to Moomin’s mouth and Moomin squeaks from the suddenly shushing. ‘Quiet. Do you hear that?’  
  
_‘Mho?’_ Moomin manages around the Joxter’s paw and Hodgkins comes down to them, a worried furrow on his brow.  
  
‘You hear it then,’ Hodgkins says to the Joxter, who nods and Moomin swats at him, getting the paw from his mouth.  
  
‘Hear what?’ Moomin says, as he can’t hear anything. He pricks his ears, flicks them a bit but nothing picks up. There’s nothing around them but fog and the stray outlines of black bushes. Moomin looks to the Muddler. ‘Do you hear anything?’  
  
‘You don’t?’ the Muddler says, coming closer. Hodgkins and the Joxter are tense.  
  
‘Which direction?’ Hodgkins asks and the Joxter steps a little aways, eyes out over the mist.  
  
‘Impossible to say,’ the Joxter says darkly, inching back and he raises a paw, nervously flexing his fingers. When Moomin looks, he can see the black fur there is standing on end. ‘It wants us off the path.’  
  
‘All the more reason to at least get an idea of which way not to go,’ Hodgkins says, cupping a paw around his own ear. ‘I think it might be coming from the West.’  
  
‘That’s what it wants you to think,’ the Joxter says and Moomin acts without thinking, putting a paw to the Joxter’s shoulder. The Joxter jumps, looking at him with his eyes round.  
  
‘What is it?’ Moomin asks him, squeezing slightly. ‘What do you hear?’  
  
‘Music,’ the Joxter says, looking out again. ‘There’s music in the mist.’  
  
‘Music? A tavern maybe?’  
  
‘It’s not that kind of music,’ the Joxter says and he moves closer to Moomin, seemingly without thinking. Touching him as he is, Moomin can feel he’s shaking. ‘It’s Nӓkki.’  
  
The Muddler yelps as though his tail’s been trod on. ‘Nӓkki! Are you sure?’  
  
‘It can’t be much else,’ Hodgkins says and he huddles them all closer, asking the Muddler to hold the lantern up. Hodgkins takes out the map. ‘There’s no dwelling on this map, so there can’t be anywhere for music to be playing. It’s a trick.’  
  
‘What’s an Nӓkki?’ Moomin asks and the Joxter leans against him.  
  
‘Water sprite,’ he says to Moomin, reaching with a paw and putting it against Moomin’s chest. ‘They play music to lure creatures out to drown.’  
  
‘Oh.’ That sounds suitably horrific. ‘Why can’t I hear it though?’  
  
‘You’re a troll,’ the Joxter says like this explains everything which is certainly doesn’t but Moomin doesn’t want to ask about what he should probably know himself. ‘Magic like that won’t work on you.’  
  
‘Well, it’s not working on you either, right? You know it’s a trick.’  
  
‘That won’t matter if the Nӓkki really wants us,’ the Joxter says and Hodgkins makes a small huff of importance.  
  
‘We keep on the path and we keep together,’ Hodgkins says firmly and the Muddler nods, pot jangling. ‘Mudder, you stay with me. I’ve got muffs in my bag, but only for myself I’m afraid. Moomintroll, you stay close to Joxter. The music isn’t good for him.’  
  
If it leads to drowning, Moomin doubts the music is good for anyone but he must admit that the Joxter does not appear well. If Moomin were to put a word to it, the Joxter looks afraid and the paw on Moomin’s chest is still trembling.  
  
‘Come now,’ he says gently, taking the Joxter’s paw from him and giving him a hearty pat on the arm. ‘We’ll just keep going until it gives up, all right?’  
  
The Joxter doesn’t say anything but he follows Moomin when they start walking. Moomin keeps his eye on Hodgkins ahead, who leads the way with purpose, but his ears flicks back behind him to listen to the light footsteps of the Joxter. They all stop when something cuts through the quiet; only the shriek of a bird but it gives them a fright all the same.  
  
The Joxter jumps behind and his paw slips right into Moomin’s, lacing their fingers together and gripping very tightly.  
  
Moomin goes stiff, glancing down to see black fingers like piano keys against his own. He looks away again, thinking it only polite to at least give the Joxter a moment to compose himself. Moomin acts on an instinct not usually felt and gently rubs his thumb along the line of the Joxter’s.  
  
‘There, there,’ he offers awkwardly, walking along again and bringing the Joxter behind. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’  
  
This, of course, is not strictly speaking true but Moomin says it all the same. It doesn’t hurt to fib a little every now and again, especially if one’s friend is upset. Moomin grabs that thought by the tail and tugs it right back. He’s never thought of the Joxter as a friend before.  
  
But he holds the Joxter’s paw tightly anyway, making good on a promise he decides to share.  
  
‘I won’t let it get you,’ he says resolutely, turning to see if he’s been any comfort but when he does, his stomach drops as though he’s stepped off some lurching cliff.  
  
There’s no one there.  
  
Moomin shouts with fright, leaping back and raising the empty paw that had been holding the Joxter’s. He spins on the spot, heart in his throat and everything gone cold inside. The twine from his wrist swings limply- there’s no one the other end.  
  
‘Joxter!’ Moomin calls and the Muddler and Hodgkins turn to watch him, Hodgkins striding forward. ‘Joxter! Where are you?’  
  
‘What’s happened?’ Hodgkins asks and Moomin looks at him wildly, heart thundering in his chest.  
  
‘I- I don’t know,’ he says to him, shaking. ‘He was right here, I swear! I was holding his paw!’  
  
Hodgkins says nothing to that; just gives Moomin a fierce look before striding past and calling out the Joxter’s name out into the mist with the lantern aloft. The orange glow of the candle inside is not enough to get through the fog.

‘Joxter, now is not the time for games!’ Hodgkins says and Moomin wants to scream at such a ridiculous thing to say. Not even the Joxter would play a joke like this. ‘Come back at once!’  
  
‘Where is he?’ the Muddler asks, coming close to Moomin but Moomin heads straight back down the way they came. ‘Moomintroll, wait!’  
  
‘He can’t have gone far!’ Moomin says desperately, shaking as he strides into the dark and the fog. He looks to the others, pleading. ‘He was holding my paw.’  
  
Neither look like they believe him so Moomin says it again, more insistent.  
  
‘He was!’ he says, showing them the paw like the Joxter’s prints might possibly be there to back him up. ‘He was right here, I was holding his paw. I was keeping him close!’  
  
‘That doesn’t matter now,’ Hodgkins says firmly, checking his own twine. It tugs on the Muddler, who in turn pulls on his end to Moomin. ‘What matters is we find him now.’  
  
‘We won’t find him like this,’ Moomin says, gesturing to the twine. He looks into the fog, sees nothing but the shifting coils of it and strange shapes. ‘I’m going to go looking for him.’  
  
‘Don’t be daft! You’ll drown!’ the Muddler says manically but Moomin is already swinging his pack around, ferreting through one of the pockets for his knife.  
  
‘Moomins can swim,’ Moomin says, cutting his tie. He points to the lantern. ‘Keep that lit and stay here. I’ll use the light to find my way back once I find him.’  
  
‘Be careful,’ Hodgkins says, clearly knowing a fight he can’t win when he sees one. Moomin nods and heads out into the fog, eyes straining to see.

Moomin isn’t sure how far he goes back down the path. But the lantern light fades fast in the fog and above him, thunder crashes. Moomin stops to look up, waiting for rain but it doesn’t come. The storm is getting closer.

‘Joxter!’ Moomin calls, slipping off the path and into a puddle of dark water. He pulls himself back up. ‘Good gracious! Joxter, where are you?’

The Joxter doesn’t answer and Moomin tries not to give into the hopeless feeling that looms over him like the black clouds overhead. It’s so dark, the fog so thick- if the Joxter has fallen how is Moomin going to see him? 

He should’ve taken the lantern. Moomin isn’t like the Joxter, he doesn’t have night-eyes. But then if he had, how would he find his way back?

And what if there is something else out here? Something like the Näkki, something else altogether that Moomin can’t hear? Moomin tries to ignore the creeping feeling inside. As though the fog were a rope tightening around him. 

If something comes through the fog, Moomin won't see it coming and he tightens his paws into fists, frightened of something he imagines. He imagines something tall, something creeping- like a terrible tree. Moomin's read before that creatures lost in the bogs die in the peat and turn black, coal-black l and hard like tree-bark. He tries not to look at the ground, tries not to imagine soot-coloured fingers prying up through the dirt-  
  
But then, Moomin sees a shape ahead of him. He shouts at first, startled, but as he looks he then runs towards it with his heart in his throat.  
  
‘Joxter!’ he cries, coming close enough to see it is indeed the Mumrik. The Joxter is standing knee-deep in bog water, his back to Moomin and arms down to his side limply. ‘Joxter, what are you doing?’  
  
The Joxter doesn’t answer and Moomin hovers on the edge of the pool he stands in, debating but really, there’s no choice at all.  
  
Moomin steps into the water and gasps with the shock-cold of it even through his pelt and steels himself to wade out into it towards the Joxter. The ground beneath is incredibly soft and every step under the water feels like Moomin is just moments away from being swallowed by the bog altogether. He’s much heavier than a Mumrik, after all.  
  
‘Joxter, I swear,’ Moomin says furiously, a volatile cocktail of relief and frustration boiling over inside of him as he gets close. ‘If you don’t drown us both here, I’ll drown you myself!’  
  
The Joxter doesn’t even twitch, doesn’t show any sign he’s heard Moomin at all and once Moomin gets close enough to touch, he sees something must be very wrong.  
  
Moomin can’t hear it, but he wonders if the Näkki’s music is playing still for there is something of a bewitchment in the Joxter’s eye. They’re wide and his mouth agape, as though caught half-way through a shout and he stares out into the bleakness.  
  
‘Joxter,’ Moomin says, unsure and he tries to pull the Joxter away with him, back towards the hard peat where they may stand. 

It’s like a string has suddenly been cut. The Joxter springs to life in Moomin’s paw, startling backwards with a shout. Moomin tries to catch him but they both stumble back into the water: it sloshes up to their waists as Moomin loses his footing.

‘I- where are you?’ The Joxter shouts and Moomin grunts, surprised and tries to get them both upright. But the Joxter is already trying to get to his feet. ‘Did you hear him, Moomintroll?’

‘Who?’ Moomin asks, baffled and angry as the Joxter struggles out of his grip. ‘There’s nothing there!’

‘No, no,’ the Joxter says desperately, getting to his feet in the water and turning around on the spot. He looks mad, if Moomin is to be honest. ‘I saw… I was sure I’d heard him.’

‘Who?’ Moomin says again, standing best he can in the mud. ‘There’s nobody out here but us and whatever forsaken creature lives in this bog, Näkki or otherwise. Didn’t you say yourself it was one?’ 

The Joxter frowns and it’s like watching clouds part the way the mania from his face begins to clear. In its place though, is a look of such terrible loss Moomin doesn’t think it an improvement. 

‘Oh, Moomintroll,’ the Joxter says, sounding as though he’s only just seen Moomin for who he is. 

Then, the Joxter does something most unprecedented. He strides forward and throws himself at Moomin, skinny arms around his neck and burrowing his pointy nose into Moomin’s shoulder. 

Moomin freezes and it has nothing to with the cold water or horrid fog. The Joxter clings tightly, pressing so very close that Moomin can feel the press of all his coat buttons on his chest. He’s shaking again, claws just shy of pinching where he holds Moomin fast.

‘Hey,’ Moomin says, unsure and confused. ‘Hey, hey now.’ 

‘I saw them in the mist,’ the Joxter says and Moomin has to strain his ear to hear him as he says it right into the fluff of Moomin’s neck. ‘I saw faces in the mist.’ 

Moomin looks over the Joxter’s shoulder. He sees nothing. 

‘There’s nothing there,’ Moomin says, shaky at first but he says it again more sure. ‘There’s nothing there. It was a trick. Some sprite’s idea of a joke.’ 

The Joxter is still shaking and Moomin panics, hoping the fellow isn’t crying as Moomin doesn’t think he could bear it. Never been good for creature’s crying. 

‘Now, now,’ he says, watching the Joxter’s tail start to flick again behind him in the water. ‘None of that. 

The Joxter slowly starts to become still, his grip easing slightly as he does. Moomin gently lifts an arm, patting him lightly on the back. 

‘I’d tell you if there was something there,’ he says, trying to sound more sensible than he feels. ‘But it’s nothing. It’s just mist.’ 

The Joxter pulls back after a long moment, meeting Moomin’s gaze. His eyes are dark and shiny, like black buttons and Moomin wonders if they’ve always been so very… well, hardly matters, he supposes.

‘Wotcher,’ Moomin says and the Joxter sighs, closing his eyes with a look of relief. His arms slide down Moomin’s own, holding Moomin at the wrists. 

‘A trick,’ the Joxter says, seemingly to himself. ‘A sprite’s nasty trick.’ 

‘Exactly,’ Moomin says, almost laughing at how ridiculous they’ve all been. Getting scared of shadows in the dark like kits. ‘Now let’s get back to Hodgkins and Muddler before they think us drowned.’ 

‘We nearly were,’ the Joxter says, looking around them. ‘Or rather, you nearly were. Thanks to me.’ 

‘A Moomin is a fine swimmer. I’d have lived,’ Moomin says, starting to wade his way back to the peat banks. The Joxter walks beside him and Moomin keeps an eye on him this time. ‘You might not have been so lucky. Guess you were right about that Näkki.’

The Joxter makes a thoughtful noise. ‘I suppose I was.’ 

Once on the bank, Moomin holds a paw out to help the Joxter up. The Joxter steps back then, paws to himself and Moomin hovers, debating his words. 

‘You know,’ he says, swallowing awkwardly and feeling quite foolish now the worry has passed. ‘I’m sorry for not watching you closer.’

‘You did nothing wrong,’ the Joxter says, watching the mist with a frown. ‘It was me who let myself get caught in an enchantment.’ 

‘All the same, if you want to hold my paw again-’ Moomin says, struggling to get around the embarrassment but he forces himself to. ‘-you can. I won’t mind.’ 

The Joxter looks at him, mouth open for a long while before a word sees fit to follow. 

‘I wasn’t holding your paw,’ the Joxter says and Moomin frowns, cold inside again.  
  
‘Yes, you were,’ he says, raising said paw up and the Joxter looks to it. ‘You were holding it right before- well, before.’ 

The Joxter looks at the paw and then to Moomin’s face. 

‘No,’ the Joxter says, shaking his head. ‘I assure you, Moomintroll. I was not.’ 

‘But if not you…’ Moomin looks at the shifting mist and thunder rolls overhead. ‘Then who?’


	3. Chapter 3

The rain comes so quickly and so suddenly, it’s as though the sky has had a blade run through it, and been split right down the middle.  
  
They’re all soaked fairly quickly; even Moomin is nearly so through his pelt and that takes some working. The whole world has gone dark around them save for the lantern and every once and a while, a streak of lightning. It’s not like the lightning of the sea though- this storm turns the world yellow and sickly for a moment before thunder swallows it.  
  
Moomin and the Joxter are walking together. Moomin had been too embarrassed to push what he’d clearly mistaken in the fog, but the Joxter stays close anyway like he knows how spooked Moomin is. It should nettle, but truthfully Moomin is just relieved not to lose the Mumrik again.  
  
Especially as the rain swells the bog, which is rising up the path and lapping at their feet.  
  
‘Look!’ the Muddler says, bustling ahead of Hodgkins so quick he nearly topples him. ‘A house!’  
  
‘What?’ Hodgkins also rushes forward, lantern aloft in one long arm. ‘It can’t be. There’s no house on the map.’  
  
‘Perhaps house is a bit too humble a thing to call it, but there’s definitely something! Look!’ the Muddler says again, pointing out towards the East. Or what Moomin thinks to be East anyway- he feels quite turned around in this dark.  
  
There are indeed lights out that way and something looms dark over the fog. Moomin has to squint, keeps trying to brush the water from his eyes when suddenly something comes over him. He starts as the Joxter pulls in close, the hat taken from his head and plopped on Moomin’s instead.  
  
‘Better?’ he asks, though the rain now comes down upon him and he flattens his ears with it. Moomin is more than grateful.  
  
‘Yes,’ he says, the wide brim of the Joxter’s hat keeping the rain somewhat a bay. He looks where the Muddler is pointing. ‘There’s definitely a house there. A big one.’  
  
‘It must be new,’ Hodgkins says though they all know that can’t be, as even far as they are they can see this is a very grand house indeed. Too grand for any sensible creature to build in times like these. ‘Either way, it’s a port in the storm! Literally!’  
  
To make his point, the sky rumbles and the Joxter presses close, almost flat against Moomin’s shoulder and under his own hat anyway.  
  
‘We can ask if they’d mind us waiting out the worst of it,’ Hodgkins says, turning to the rest of them and the Muddler nods emphatically. ‘Even if it’s their oven, I don’t mind standing by something warm.’  
  
Moomin wouldn’t mind an oven himself, especially if there’s something in it. It’s been a long few hours without anything to eat save for what they’d managed to scavenge in the wood; and that hadn’t been much.  
  
‘Let’s go then!’  
  
Moomin turns to replace the Joxter’s hat and pauses, stalled by the look on the Joxter’s face. It’s frightfully close to what he’d looked like when under the Näkki’s song. It makes Moomin feel very hollow inside in a manner nothing to do with hunger.  
  
‘Joxter, fellow,’ he says over the rain, tugging on the lapel of the Joxter’s sodden coat. ‘You don’t hear music again, do you?’  
  
‘Music?’ the Joxter says, sounding dazed before he starts. He looks to Moomin wildly, whiskers straight as rods. ‘No. No music.’  
  
‘What is it so?’  
  
‘We shouldn’t go to that place,’ the Joxter says darkly, shrinking in on himself. ‘I can’t but help feel…’  
  
‘Is it a foreboding?’ Moomin asks, worried and the Joxter paws at his scarf anxiously.  
  
‘No. Or rather if it is, not one I’ve had the like of before,’ the Joxter says, which is really no answer at all Moomin thinks and isn’t that just typical? Underneath them, the bog is rising and past their ankles now. ‘It’s usually so- so…’  
  
When he doesn’t say anything else, Moomin pucks him. ‘So what?’  
  
‘We should never have come this way,’ the Joxter says with a shake of his head, but he starts down the path after Hodgkins and the Muddler all the same, leaving Moomin standing alone quite abruptly.  
  
He lingers a moment, paws in fists as he considers himself. Behind them, Moomin looks out into the fog and the rain. He feels his skin goose-pimple again, feels quite suddenly that there’s something out there watching him back. It pools cold like the rain his stomach; dread.  
  
But Moomin is not the sort to be scared by his own shadow. He already knows perfectly well there’s things out there in the mist and the storm, but none that can hurt him and that’s that. He tells himself this sternly before turning his back on whatever is out there, following the others towards the house.  
  
The feeling of being watched lingers.  
  
  
*/  
  
  
By the time they make it to the door, the path is nearly lost entirely to the black water of the bog.  
  
Truly, the place looks like no sane creature should live here. It’s too large and wide, with the windows that are not lit mismatched with empty frames and clouded glass.  
  
Moomin shivers looking at them; they remind him of the colour a fish’s eyes turn after the Joxter has caught it and left it suffocate on the deck.  
  
At least fifty could live in so grand a place; but if not for the lights that burn and the smoke from one of its chimneys, Moomin would think not one soul did. The driveway is lost entirely to withered reeds and more brambles. The Muddler gets stuck in a few, Moomin himself pricked, but they march on.  
  
The Joxter has migrated to Hodgkins, talking to him but they’re too far ahead and the rain too heavy for Moomin to hear what they might be saying over the din.  
  
One of the lanterns at the house’s great door are lit. It’s their beacon as they slip and sink through the mud, with Hodgkins eventually getting to it and hitting it with a mighty knock that might on a fine day have been considered rude.  
  
When no one answers, he does so again.  
  
The Joxter stands by him, mouth in a very thin line as he clearly worries at his lip. Moomin wants to go over and say something, but instead he stays with the Muddler who has started sagging with exhaustion; someone needs to hold him up.  
  
The second knock does the trick.  
  
The door opens; it’s larger than even first thought and Moomin is reminded of the brig of the Oshun Oxtra of all things. White hands appear, and then a creature to go with them. She’s a slight, frail thing and unlike anyone Moomin has met before.  
  
He thinks perhaps she might be some relation to a Mymble, or some other fair folk but not like any Mymble he’s ever seen. Rake thin with dark hair, pulled neatly back and now the door is open properly, Moomin can see she’s in a dark pinafore. A maid.  
  
‘Hullo!’ Hodgkins says, amiably as he so often is and the others defer to him entirely to explain them. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry for giving you a fright and knocking on your door so late, but we'd appreciate some shelter from the storm.’  
  
The maid says nothing. She looks out past Hodgkins, towards Moomin and the fur on the back of his neck stands on end. Her face is gaunt, like she’s as starving as they are but for far, far longer.  
  
‘It’s raining,’ she says simply and Hodgkins falters, but won’t be deterred.

‘Yes, quite terribly. We were on the path but feared-'  
  
‘That’s a bad path,’ the maid says, interrupting and The Joxter goes very still, leaning away from the light that spills from the door like it might burn him. ‘Not very reliable, I mean.’  
  
‘Er. Quite,’ Hodgkins says and Moomin wonders if perhaps they’ve made a mistake, (the first of many, if he’s to be honest), but then the maid steps aside.  
  
‘Drawing room,’ she says, like they are to know such a thing and she points a bony finger out towards the left of the great hall she’s standing in. ‘A fire is lit. I’ll bring you coffee.’  
  
With that, she simply walks away and leaves the door open.  
  
All four of them look to each other, quite amazed at their luck Moomin thinks and possibly also considering whether or not to look this particular gift horse in its mouth. At that, Moomin looks behind him.  
  
The path is completely gone under the water.  
  
‘Drawing room it is,’ Hodgkins says, seemingly reading Moomin’s mind and they all head in. Well, almost all.  
  
‘Joxter, I swear!’ Moomin says, pausing in the doorway to glare back out to where the Joxter is standing still in the rain. ‘If I have to pull your raggedy arse any further in any such direction, there’ll be hell to pay! I know you’re not happy, I know you think we’ve cocked the whole thing up but get a grip, will you?’  
  
‘Doesn’t the grass seem strange to you?’ the Joxter asks bizarrely and Moomin nearly weeps with frustration, rubbing at his face. ‘How can something surrounded by water be so dry?’  
  
‘Oh, give me strength,’ Moomin says, pinching between his eyes. ‘They’re reeds, Joxter. What else should they be? Can we please talk about what a seasoned gardener you’ve become today when we're inside where I might get some peace of mind?’  
  
But the Joxter doesn’t move, because why would he? He hasn’t yet except to wander off into a Näkki’s drowning pool and why should this be any different? It’s probably hunger. And exhaustion. And a myriad of different things but Moomin’s patience is wearing very thin.  
  
‘Joxter, please,’ Moomin begs, not above it if it means they all get inside somewhere warm with coffee. ‘If not for sense, rhyme or reason, could you come in at least for me and my poor nerves?’  
  
The Joxter looks to Moomin then and Moomin tries not to look away. It can be so very _much_, when the Joxter looks at him. Moomin’s not entirely sure why, though he reckons it might be in part how very blue the Joxter’s eyes are. He can’t help but find them a little unnatural.  
  
‘All right,’ the Joxter says and though he does move, Moomin thinks he looks like someone walking the wrong way through a very hard wind. But at least he comes inside and Moomin can finally shut the heavy door on the storm.  
  
The Muddler and Hodgkins have gone ahead to the drawing room and the bright, orange light of its fire within stretches across the dark tiles of the hall. Moomin stands with the top of his feet just out of reach of the banner of it and feels uneasy. He looks to the closed door, heart beginning to race.  
  
There's something behind that door. Moomin is convinced of it and has no good reason to be so, but the heavy horror of such sits inside anyway.  
  
Something has followed them through that mist outside and Moomin can't stop picturing what it might be. He imagines hands like that maid's- white, thin and reaching. Perhaps whatever it is will press against the door, fog its cold breath against the grain of the wood before reaching for the handle-  
  
'Stop it,' the Joxter suddenly says and Moomin jumps with fright. He looks to the Joxter, who is watching him closely. 'Whatever terrible thoughts you're having, don't let them lead you like that.'  
  
'I-I'm not having terrible thoughts,' Moomin replies weakly, trying to puff up his chest to seem braver. The Joxter gives him an arch look to say it hasn't worked.   
  
'There are already things to be afraid of, Moomintroll,' the Joxter says, which is no comfort at all and Moomin frowns. 'Don't invent new ones.'  
  
With that, the Joxter starts towards the drawing room. Moomin watches him go, before looking around the foyer again.  
  
There is a grand staircase that turns right to a gallery and then darkness. There are also doors that lay open with no lights within and Moomin can't look at all of them at once, but he wishes he could. Something isn't right about this place and Moomin isn't sure what to do about it.  
  
He heads to the drawing room, walking quickly and trying not to think of something pressing close, cold and hungry against the door behind him.   
  
The fashion of the room is a very odd mix. There's a fine telephone on a shelf in one of the arches, but in the far corner there's also an older style phonograph. The kind that plays cylinders and Moomin truly doesn't think he's seen one of those since the orphanage. It shakes up unpleasant memories, so he turns away.  
  
Hodgkins has settled in a large chair by the fireplace, which is as ornate as it is dusty. The Muddle stands in the centre, head up towards the ceiling and Moomin approaches him, looking up himself and seeing not much past the moulding.   
  
‘Must be new after all,’ the Muddler says idly, drawing a line through the air with his finger. ‘Those arches are clearly Gothic inspired but not actually Gothic.’  
  
Moomin looks at said arches along the edge of the room and sees… well, arches. ‘Are they?’  
  
‘It’s quite popular lately,’ the Muddler says like this is sensible knowledge. ‘Especially in the cities. Neo-Gothic, I think they called it.’  
  
‘How on earth do you know a thing about that?’ Moomin asks, completely boggled but the Joxter comes close again. Moomin can smell rain on him and the tang of bog.  
  
‘For something so supposedly modern, it doesn’t look new,’ the Joxter says quietly and as Moomin looks around, he must agree.  
  
The house seems quite old and not very well-kept. But it’s so large a house and really, so small a maid perhaps this is the best that can be expected.  
  
‘Perhaps our hostess is just a bit over her head,’ Moomin suggests but the Joxter doesn’t seem to think so. He skulks ahead without another word, settling himself in the long chaise furtherest from the fire and by the window. He looks out it, scowling. Moomin huffs. ‘Mumriks.’  
  
Moomin doesn't like looking at the window. It's so dark outside and the fire so bright here it reflects like a mirror. It makes Moomin uneasy, that he can't see outside. He busies himself by approaching the fire under the pretence of stoking it though it clearly doesn't need it.   
  
Above the fireplace is what Moomin assumes to be a mirror or maybe even a painting. He assumes because the frame has been covered with a muslin sheet, as though being packed away for Hibernation. He anxiously pats at his chest, feeling much the same about it as he did when looking at those dark doorways in the hall. That is to say... not good.  
  
Their quiet is disrupted by a rattling. Moomin turns over his shoulder to see the maid has come back in, this time pushing a tea trolley.   
  
She pours cups of coffee silently, handing out to each of them. Moomin takes his and sits on the chaise next to the Joxter, blowing over the hot cup. The maid pours the fourth and walks over to the Joxter, who flicks his tail as she approaches.  
  
'Coffee, sir,' she says and Moomin groans into his own coffee, seeing it coming.   
  
'Don't call me that,' the Joxer replies curtly, tail swishing in warning. 'No coffee for me, thank you.'  
  
'Come on, Joxter,' Hodgkins says, sounding as tired as Moomin feels. 'The good creature was kind enough to let us in, the least you can do is drink her coffee.'  
  
Joxter frowns, glancing to Moomin. His eyes are dark and Moomin pauses mid-sip, trying to gauge the expression on the Mumrik's face.   
  
'I'll share Moomintroll's,' the Joxter says and Moomin frowns, completely thrown by this. Moomin looks to Hodgkins, who just shrugs as the Joxer promptly takes the cup from Moomin's paws.  
  
'I understand,' the maid says, nodding and turning back to her tray. 'You're used to sharing, you are.'  
  
Moomin doesn't consider _theft _to be sharing and he's quite certain most sensible creatures wouldn't either. He's about to say so, but something stops him. The Joxter still hasn't taken a sip from the cup, long nose tucked down as though he smells something bitter.   
  
'I have no one to share with normally,' the Joxter replies and the maid looks at him, eyes wide and unnerving.   
  
'It's all around you, you know,' she says, coming close and as she does, the Joxter instantly pulls away and presses himself right into the back fo the chaise. Next to Moomin, the Joxter's tail fluffs up and on a sudden but fervent instinct, Moomin stands from the chaise to curb the maid coming any closer. The maid stops, but her eyes are only on the Joxter. 'That sadness you got. All round your shoulder like a big old shawl.'  
  
Moomin looks to the Joxter, a paw reaching out without thinking. The Joxter seems to be shrinking in on himself, face wary.   
  
'It's a terrible shame,' the maid says, nodding and she turns over her shoulder to Hodgkins. 'Ain't it a terrible shame, losing like that?'  
  
'Losing like... what, miss?' Hodgkins asks politely and the Muddler huddles closer. The maid waves a pale hand.   
  
'Oh, this and that,' she says, bafflingly before looking to the Joxter again. But something about her eye, the strange look of it, makes Moomin nervous. 'It can be so very hard to tell one way or another this time of year. The nights are coming so quickly hard to say when the day's ending at all. Harvest's over, did you know that?'  
  
The Muddler taps his cup. 'We miss those things now, really. We travel by sea.'  
  
'Can be awful careless,' the maid replies, eyes still on the Joxter. 'Missing things like that.'  
  
They all fall quiet then as the maid trails off, a vacant look coming over her face as she seemingly tries to think of something. Outside, rain patters against the window and the horrid, creeping cold of being watched pools deep in Moomin's gut. He can see the dark hall out of the corner of his eye, tries to force himself not to look.   
  
_Don't go spooking yourself, _he thinks but it's very hard to do all the same.   
  
Suddenly, the maid takes a quiet gasp but it's so abrupt it seems to take them all by surprise.   
  
‘Oh, you poor creature,’ she says, reaching for the Joxter again but Moomin steps forward, putting himself firmly between them. ‘I’m dreadful sorry.’

‘What for?’ the Joxter asks, clearly unnerved and the maid tuts, shaking her head. 

‘Why, about your son, of course! What else?’

With that, she suddenly bundles her tea trolley together and walks out with it, leaving them alone in the room once more.  
  
Moomin glances to Joxter, an uneasy knot in his stomach that has nothing to do with the strangeness.   
  
Joxter puts the cup down on the nearest table as quick as he can, it seems. He spills coffee but doesn't seem to notice, ducking his hat down over his face as he curls up close on the chaise.   
  
Hodgkins clears his throat and when Moomin looks over, Hodgkins nods towards the Joxter pointedly. Moomin takes the hint but truly, he needn't have been told. He was going to do it anyway.   
  
Moomin settles himself back down on the chaise, grateful as Hodgkins sends the Muddler over to the phonograph to fiddle with it. With the distraction offering something by means of privacy, Moomin lets himself sit a touch closer than he might've on a normal day. But there's not one blessed thing normal in this.

Lightning flashes in the storm outside and the window illuminates like a candle, throwing the Joxter into high relief before he sinks into the half-day again.   
  
'She's an odd fish, that one,' Moomin says, trying for jovial but missing considerably. He lands more in the vicinity of pitched. The Joxer doesn't uncoil. 'Wonder if she's on her own very often. Doesn't seem to be anyone else here for her to look after.'  
  
'She's looking after something,' the Joxter says quietly, through what sounds like gritted teeth and Moomin pats his own knees, nervous.  
  
'I suppose so. Someone's got to be paying her, after all.'  
  
Moomin realises too late that the Joxter hadn't said _someone._ He pushes the thought away, not entertaining the nonsense anymore than he already has. Instead, he chews around what he really wants to say. Truly, it's what niggles the most and for some reason, gives a terrible sensation in Moomin's chest like an ache.  
  
'You never told me of your family,' Moomin says and the Joxter leans closer, though his face is still hidden.   
  
'I told you as much as there is. That is to say, nothing.'  
  
'You must have something.'  
  
'Must I?'  
  
The Joxter looks up then, eyes deep and Moomin's breath catches on his words.  
  
‘I just- I mean, I didn’t know you had a son.’  
  
The Joxter blinks, a shiver running through him and his whiskers stand up like like wires. He looks to the door,   
  
‘I… I don’t,’ he says and there’s something about his tone, the keen way he watches just over where the maid had been that makes Moomin believe him.  
  
Together they sit on the chaise as music fills the room from the phonograph. It's terribly old fashioned, nothing brass or fast in it like what Moomin has heard in towns. But Moomin is glad of the distraction, letting the music wash over him and down out the horrid rain. Then, Moomin jumps when Joxter suddenly takes his paw in his. Joxter holds so tightly Moomin can feel the threat of claws.  
  
‘Joxter?’  
  
But Joxter says nothing else. His eyes are near black; night-eyes, out into the shadowed nothing of the hallway where it’s dark. If he sees something Moomin cannot, he doesn’t say. But he does come closer, practically crawling onto Moomin’s lap. He holds Moomin's paw like a promise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oíche Shamhna sona!

When it becomes clear the storm won’t let up for the night, they’re given rooms to sleep in.  
  
The maid leads them up the grand stairs, through the dark hallway. She puts Hodgkins and the Muddler in one room, and across the hall she puts Moomin and Joxter. She leaves them with the candlestick she’d led the way with and then walks off, seemingly knowing the house too well for need of it.  
  
The four of them stand together in the hall, a door on either side and a great deal on unease between the lot of them.  
  
‘She’s barmy,’ the Muddler says finally and Hodgkins tuts, but Moomin thinks he’s only saying what they’re all thinking. ‘Absolute loon.’  
  
‘Look who’s talking,’ Joxter says quietly, just for Moomin to hear and despite everything, it does make Moomin laugh so he quickly tries to cover it up as clearing his throat.  
  
‘Now, now don’t be rude,’ Hodgkins says though his mouth is twitching all the same. ‘She’s given us a warm dinner and a bed. Far as I’m concerned she could be loopier than a sailor’s knot and I’d still be grateful.’  
  
‘Good thing you’re grateful then,’ Moomin says and the Muddler laughs. ‘We best kip. Sooner we sleep, sooner we can leave.’  
  
‘Hear, hear to that,’ the Muddler says, clutching at his tin. It rattles again with whatever odds and bobs he’s gathered. ‘This place gives me the willies.’  
  
‘Everything gives you the willies,’ Hodgkins says, ruffling his whiskers. ‘Shorter to say what doesn’t. You’ve got the nerves of a bag of cats that’s been shook.’  
  
‘Ouch,’ Joxter says, again just to Moomin and again, it makes him laugh. Behind him, Moomin can feel Joxter’s tail brush against his own and it fizzles like pop in his chest.  
  
‘And don’t think I can’t see you two playing silly beggars,’ Hodgkins says, pointing to Moomin and Joxter with the candlestick and they both snicker to themselves again at being caught. ‘Bed. All of us.’  
  
Order taken, Moomin and Joxter head to their room. They both stop when they open the door as it’s so cold inside, it feels like it slaps them. Joxter’s whiskers stick out and Moomin’s fur ripples, fluffing up with it.  
  
‘Well, this is cosy,’ Joxter says as they walk in. There are two beds, which answers one worry Moomin had been having but the room is still frightfully cold and dark. Moomin fidgets with the light fixtures by the door- the house still uses gas-lighting and truth be told, Moomin never quite got the hang of it.  
  
The room eventually flickers to a dull life as Moomin gets the light on. The room is terribly old-fashioned and a dreadful wind comes down the fireplace at the far wall. Again, something like a mirror or painting hangs over it but covered in muslin sheet. Moomin puts his pack down by the bed closest to the door.  
  
‘I could start us a fire, if you fancy it?’  
  
‘I wouldn’t risk it,’ Joxter says, going to the window. It’s a large rectangle with heavy curtains that fall to the ground. Joxter touches them with a paw. ‘That draft doesn’t mean the chimney is clear. We could suffocate in our sleep.’  
  
That chills Moomin more than the room and he steps away from the fireplace like it might somehow bite him. ‘Guess we’ll make do with the fur on our backs.’  
  
‘You can have my scarf,’ Joxter says mildly, drawing the curtains over the window. The rings scrape unpleasantly on the pole and Moomin winces. ‘If you’re cold.’  
  
‘Won’t you need it?’  
  
‘I’d rather you weren’t cold.’  
  
‘Well, the feeling’s mutual and I’ve got a better pelt than you have,’ Moomin says, pointing down to himself. ‘Not that you don’t have nice fur.’  
  
‘You think I’ve nice fur?’ Joxter asks, tilting his head and Moomin flushes instantly, suddenly warmer than he has any right to be in a room so cold and he looks away quickly.  
  
‘It’s all right,’ Moomin says, embarrassed for no bloody reason. ‘Can’t be the warmest though if you need all those clothes to go with it.’  
  
‘Mumrik fur is more to keep us cool than warm,’ Joxter says, walking over as though Moomin is currently busying himself with inspecting the ugly bed linen, he can hear Joxter's boots on the rug. ‘Here, see?’  
  
Moomin jumps when Joxter puts his paw to his cheek. His fingers are warm, warmer than Moomin has noticed when holding them in his own paw and he wonders how he couldn’t have noticed. Close like this, Moomin can also see the different colours in Joxter’s eyes. They’re still a ridiculous shade of blue, mind, but there’s some brown, too. Just some but Moomin is fascinated all the same.  
  
‘We run quite hot,’ Joxter says, pressing his paw a touch firmer so Moomin can feel every pad of his finger. ‘I think we must’ve been Southern creatures originally. Gets quite warm there.’  
  
‘I’ve never been.’  
  
‘Perhaps we’ll go when we get back to the Oshun Oxtra.’  
  
‘Is that where you’re from? The South?’ Moomin asks, still very aware of how they’re touching and his heart is going very fast with it. Faster than he thinks is proper. Joxter smiles and takes his paw away, shrugging.  
  
‘No idea,’ he says and he walks to the other bed, closest to the window. ‘I’m not from anywhere. Or at least nowhere I remember.’  
  
Moomin feels rather unmoored all of a sudden and he catches himself staring after Joxter much too late. But he stares all the same as Joxter removes his hat and tosses it onto the bed before crawling up himself. He’s a handsome enough creature, Moomin supposes. In an odd sort of way, like some natural thing might lend itself to handsomeness. Not pretty like a maiden might be.  
  
_No, certainly not pretty,_ Moomin thinks as Joxter shakes out his dark hair. It curls like wood shavings on top of his head, runs down into a fine fur on his neck. Handsome, Moomin thinks again. Really the only word for it.  
  
They fall quiet then as Joxter seemingly has no more to say. But Moomin has something he wants to ask, though he isn't sure how to go about it. As always, Joxter notices.  
  
'Come on then, Moomintroll,' he says, rolling his narrow shoulders. Joxter pokes out in all sorts of places Moomin doesn't. 'Spit it out. I can see you thinking so hard your ears will start steaming.'  
  
'Shut it, you!' Moomin retorts, though it's true all the same. 'You said this was a Bad Path. You were quite set on it being so.'  
  
Moomin thinks of the primroses on his pack and makes a point not to look for them.  
  
'You said you hadn't had a Foreboding though,' Moomin continues and Joxter tilts his head, blue eyes narrowing. 'So I was just wondering- how can you tell the difference? Between a Foreboding and just... I don't know? Getting a funny idea, I guess. I mean, I thought Forebodings were just what you got when it's raining.'  
  
'I'm not sure I can explain it,' Joxter replies, scratching his chin. His pointed ears flick once, towards the window but when Moomin glances over, there's nothing but the rattle of rain. 'Have you ever been reading a storybook and been able to guess how it might end, Moomintroll?'  
  
Moomin grimaces. 'I don't read many storybooks. Not as useful as an encyclopedia, really.'  
  
'But you understand what I mean, don't you?' Joxter sighs, whiskers fluffing. 'Sometimes, I simply see something as it will likely be and it seems so clear a path from one to the other, that it's quite impossible for us to take a way different. Unless, of course, I tell you to change direction. Do you understand?'  
  
Moomin doesn't have even the foggiest hope of understanding that and it must read on his face. Joxter sags, looking a shade disappointed and for the oddest reason, Moomin is self-conscious again and wishes desperately that he could make sense of it if only to understand Joxter a little better.  
  
'Can you.. see those kind things all the time?' Moomin asks, question coming before the thread of understanding but he pushes on all the same.   
  
'Sometimes it's the only way I see things,' Joxter replies, sounding quite weary. 'It can be dreadfully exhausting, I must say. I can see more things going wrong in the next hour in one minute than I might see what's just the one foot in front of me. It's too much bother to worry over them all, so I only steer the course when something seems like it might careen off entirely. On a boat like ours, that's usually rain.'  
  
If that's supposed to help Moomin at all, it doesn't.  
  
'So... you see the future?'  
  
Joxter pulls a face, pointy nose scrunching up. 'No one can see the future, Moomintroll.'  
  
'So you're just guessing then?' Moomin says, believing that more than anything if he's to be honest.  
  
'No, it's something-' Joxter gestures vaguely to himself. 'Inside me, I guess. A feeling. I know simply because I do. But this place, the path we took...'  
  
The wind howls suddenly outside, giving Moomin a fright but Joxter doesn't even flinch. He frowns at the window, as though insulted the storm that wails outside has interrupted him.  
  
'I couldn't see anything for us on this path,' Joxter says and Moomin hums. 

‘Is that… bad?’

‘It’s unnatural.’ 

‘So bad for you.’  
  
'Maybe,' Joxter says, though he doesn't sound convinced at all. Which is probably only fair, as Moomin isn't sure he buys Joxter's explanation of Forebodings either. So at least they're even on that. When he speaks again, it's very quiet; 'I saw a child.'  
  
'What?' Moomin says, thrown entirely and Joxter sighs.  
  
'In the mist. I thought saw a child. The music I heard, it was from a child.'  
  
'How... what do you mean?' Moomin wants to reach out, but stops himself. 'Like singing?'  
  
'No. Though, maybe?' Joxter runs a paw through his hair so some curls stick straight up. 'It's hard to say. Just what I thought. I went looking, heard the kit laughing as I did. I kept going until I saw others.'  
  
'Others?'  
  
'They were gone as quick as they came,' Joxter says quickly, as though he wants to finish his story as fast as possible. Again, most unlike him, Moomin thinks.   
  
Moomin feels a nag in his chest as he suddenly thinks about the horrid business of earlier, in the fog.  
  
'What did you see?' he asks and Joxter looks over to him, fidgeting with his scarf as he does. 'What faces out in the fog?'  
  
'I told you,' Joxter says, tighter than usual. 'It was only a trick. I shouldn't have fell for it.'  
  
'You said you saw faces,' Moomin pushes and Joxter shrugs in on himself, tail coiling around his lap. 'What kind of faces?'  
  
'You don't need to know a thing like that,' Joxter says blithely and Moomin frowns, not sure about that himself.   
  
'Were they very terrible then?'  
  
'Something like that,' he says darkly, out of character in every manner he takes now and Moomin isn't sure what to do with the anxious itch he feels to join Joxter on his bed. 'It can be so unpleasant, being under an enchantment like that.'  
  
'I wouldn't know,' Moomin says, clasping his paws together before he loses the run of himself entirely. 'Never been enchanted.'  
  
'No, I suppose you're too clever for for that,' Joxter says and at first, Moomin thinks it a compliment and preens before he looks to see Joxter is grinning at him. Ah. A tease, then. Moomin should've guessed. 'Trolls are enchanting creatures, Moomintroll. Like can't sway like, I would think.'  
  
'So you think opposites attract?' Moomin says without thinking and he freezes, fluffing up with embarrassment.   
  
'Is that what you think I meant?' Joxter says, both paws between his crossed legs and he leans over the edge of his bed. The two beds really are quite close together.   
  
'I... well, you called me enchanting!' Moomin replies tersely, mortified and Joxter grins again, laughing quietly. Like a breath, really.   
  
'I suppose I did.'  
  
'Did you mean it?'  
  
Joxter suddenly slinks back and on any other creature, Moomin might've thought it bashfulness had he not known Joxter to have ever shown such a thing.   
  
They keep chatting for what feels like a long while. A great deal of nothing in itself, as Moomin learns very little about Joxter but he does learn some things. Like the Joxter has a bad knee and a good knee apparently, and he must move about fairly often to stop one from giving out to the other. He also learns that Joxter loves to sing but can’t carry a blessed note, laughing his way through a plea that Joxter please stop his horrid rendition of a shanty they'd heard in a port.  
  
Eventually, they sleep- Moomin in his bed and Joxter in the other, with an unspoken agreement to leave the light on. But Moomin finds himself awake again not very long after.  
  
He opens his eyes to see the moulded ceiling of the room. It startles him at first, still half-asleep as the moulding takes the shape of a face. Or seems to. But once Moomin blinks, the dream clears and he sees it to be nothing. The cold grip of that fear lingers anyway. He looks over to Joxter.  
  
He can’t see Joxter as Joxter has the blankets all piled up on top of him in an effort to stay warm. He’s a small lump on the bed, hidden from view and Moomin wonders if he’s still cold. Perhaps he should’ve risked that fire after all, as his breath is misting before him now.

Looking at the fireplace, Moomin gets another fright.  
  
The muslin has slipped and it is indeed a mirror hanging over the fireplace. It’s so filthy though that the reflection of the room seems warped and Moomin finds it distinctly unpleasant. The draft seems stronger and cooler and Moomin reckons that it must’ve caught the muslin. It must’ve been what woke him up.  
  
Moomin gets out of the bed and heads over to get a better look. He stares up at it, too high above for him to be able to reach replacing the muslin. The glass is speckled like an egg and Moomin finds himself tracking to Joxter’s reflection in it.  
  
Joxter shuffles in the bed, rolls a bit and the blanket starts to shift. Moomin watches through the mirror as Joxter sits up, blanket slipping off the bed like water as he does.  
  
‘Did I wake you?’ Moomin asks him through the mirror but Joxter doesn’t answer. He looks strange, Moomin thinks but can’t say quite how.  
  
That dread that has followed Moomin all day returns. ‘Joxter?’  
  
Moomin turns and feels as though the world has slipped out from under him. Joxter’s bed is empty, blanket on the floor just as it had seemed in the mirror but Joxter is nowhere to be seen. Moomin cries out, turning back to the mirror and startling again.  
  
There’s a face in the mirror! It’s right over Moomin’s shoulder and gaunt, frightful with teeth sharp and it’s like candle wax that’s melted to be twisted all out of shape. Moomin shouts, whirling around again to face the creature but there’s nothing behind him at all.  
  
He falls on his tail on the hearth, nearly falls all the way into the firebox itself and he bangs his head on the mantel as he goes. Moomin sees stars for a moment, blinking through tears as he tries to get his bearings.  
  
_‘Joxter!’_  
  
Joxter doesn’t answer. Moomin leaps to his feet and swings a paw madly out, getting a grip on the old poker hanging by the fireplace.  
  
He holds it aloft and scans the room. There’s no one here. Heart in his throat and so sick it threatens to tip out of him should he bend too far, Moomin forces himself to look back to the mirror. It reflects himself and the empty room back to him. Moomin isn’t convinced, isn’t soothed. He’s never been one to jump at nothing but he knows himself too well to think he might be dreaming. Moomin knows he isn’t dreaming.  
  
‘Joxter!’ he calls out, poker out in front of him like a blade. He swings it, just once and it whistles through the air. Hits nothing, for there’s nothing here. ‘Joxter, where the bloody hell are you?’  
  
Moomin looks to the bedroom door to see it’s open. Joxter must’ve left, but surely he wouldn’t go without waking Moomin and asking him to come along? Moomin tries to reason with himself but he’s too scared to even blink the lingering sting from his eyes. That horrid, gaping face from the mirror is still so vivid in his mind and Moomin is hyperaware of the room around him. There's so much space behind him, so many places to hide. He can feel he's being watched.  
  
He doesn’t think, doesn’t let himself- Moomin bolts right out the bedroom door and into the dark of the hallway, casting around and seeing nothing but imagining everything that could be waiting where he can’t see. He crosses straight until he meets the door of the other bedroom.  
  
‘Good gracious!’ Hodgkins says, jumping in his bed as Moomin bursts, slamming the door behind him. ‘What on earth are you doing, Moomin?’  
  
The room illuminates like a flare as lightning flashes outside, before another thunder roars. It seems louder now and Moomin looks to the window, the curtains not drawn here. The rain is pouring so hard it fills the whole room so they have to near shout to be heard. The storm has come closer, swallowing around them and the house.  
  
‘Is Joxter here with you?’ Moomin asks, uselessly as he can see very well that Joxter isn’t- their lights are on, too. In the other bed that sits mirror to Hodgkins, almost end to end in the small room, the Muddler sits u with the blanket pulled tight around himself.  
  
‘Have you lost him again?’ the Muddler asks and Moomin bristles, tightening his grip on the poker. The Muddler makes a whimpering noise. ‘Oh, you have, haven’t you?’  
  
‘He’s not some button come loose!’ Moomin snaps as lightning flashes again. More thunder and they all look at the window for a moment. ‘He’s his own creature, I’m not his keeper.’  
  
‘We thought you’d watch him,’ Hodgkins says, getting out from the bed and fussing for his coat. ‘He’s been out of sorts.’  
  
‘No wonder,’ Moomin says, pacing between the beds. ‘You two haven’t- you haven’t seen anything strange, have you?’  
  
‘Have you been letting Joxter tell you ghost stories?’ Hodgkins asks, buttoning up his coat and reaching for the candlestick. He fiddles about some matches in his pocket. ‘I thought you were too sensible for things like that.’  
  
‘He hasn’t been telling ghost stories,’ Moomin replies, terse as he thinks of what he’s seen in the bedroom. How mad, they’d think him but he knows what he saw. The Muddler frets.  
  
‘It’s not that, it’s just… well, hasn’t the Joxter seemed strange to you today?’ he asks, nervously tugging on one of his long ears and Moomin frowns.  
  
‘Joxter’s always strange.’

‘Yes, but-' the Muddler stops talking when he looks to Moomin’s face. ‘Never mind. You’re probably right. Probably went and got notion the bed was too hard or something and gone looking for something softer.’  
  
‘I was watching him,’ Moomin says to the Muddler, both of them really and he can see the Muddler and Hodgkins exchange a look. Moomin is reminded vividly of earlier, when he’d lost Joxter in the fog and here he is, having done it again with less of a reason.  
  
‘We never said you weren’t,' Hodgkins says and Moomin grits his teeth.  
  
‘I’m going to go looking for him.’  
  
‘And what good will you be in the dark, eh?’ Hodgkins asks, lighting the candle and joining Moomin. ‘We’ll go together.’

‘And leave me on my own?’ the Muddler squeaks, sounding most alarmed. Hodgkins grimaces.  
  
‘Well, someone will have to stay here in case Joxter comes back, won’t they?’  
  
They leave the Muddler in the bedroom and head out into the hall. Somehow, they’ve gotten quite turned around. Or maybe the house is just that different without the maid to guide them. But the hallway seems so much longer and Moomin isn’t sure which way the stairs are.  
  
‘Where could he have gone?’ Moomin says, anxious and he fidgets with the poker. ‘It’s not the Näkki again, is it?’  
  
‘I’d have heard it,’ Hodgkins says, which is at least something but not comfort. Hodgkins is frowning. ‘How did Joxter seem to you before bed?’  
  
‘Well,’ Moomin answers, thinking on it now. ‘More himself than he’d been all day, really. We went to bed in good spirits.’  
  
‘And you didn’t hear him leave? Didn't see anything strange?’  
  
Moomin shakes his head firmly, not answering and Hodgkins hums.  
  
They make their way through the dark, stumbling once or twice and calling loudly for Joxter over the storm that still rages. Suddenly, an almighty bang echoes through the house and both of them jump. It sounds like it came from downstairs and just as Moomin thinks it, they round the hallway and find the landing.  
  
The lights are still on in the foyer and they help Moomin see his way as he races down the stairs, heart rabbiting in his chest. All his fur stands on end when it makes it to the bottom, caught in a fierce wind that bellows in through the open front door.  
  
There’s another mighty crash as the wind catches the door, slamming it against the wall and Moomin realises that it must’ve blown open in the storm. Rain and leaves, even some water from the bog where it’s risen so very high, are all being blown in across the tiles. Moomin tries to close it but the wind is too strong. He calls for Hodgkins, who runs over and together they just manage to get the door back in place. It takes both of their full weights to keep it closed as Hodgkins slides the bolt.  
  
‘Booble’s wept,’ Hodgkins says, rubbing at his face to clear some of the rainwater they’re now both soaked in. ‘It’s really raging out there.’  
  
‘Joxter better not be out in it,’ Moomin says fretfully, knowing if Joxter is, he’ll have to go out after him.  
  
Just as he thinks it, Moomin looks to the floor and seizes. He pats Hodgkins’ arms, breathing in short, manic bursts and he takes the candlestick, holding it out. There’s bootprints on the floor- soot-black and shiny like lacquer in mud. They walk in through the front door and off towards the back of the house, into rooms not lit. Hodgkins and Moomin stand there, staring.  
  
‘It must be Joxter. Who else would it be?’  
  
‘Why would he go outside? In this weather?’  
  
‘He may still be enchanted somewhat,’ Hodgkins says and Moomin swallows thickly, not at all sure of that. Surely, if that were true, Moomin would’ve noticed? They were alone so long. ‘But at least we know he’s not drowned. We need to look for him.’  
  
In that dark that looms, Moomin sees a flicker. It’s blue, and brief- but he knows it instantly and without thinking at all he runs into the dark.  
  
‘Moomintroll! What in blazes are you doing?!’  
  
‘Joxter!’ Moomin shouts, running headlong into more dark corridors. He sees Joxter ahead of him, a great deal ahead actually and Joxter bolts in the opposite direction, rounding a corner at the end of the hall. It’s so dark down here Moomin can barely see, candlelight flickering and not near enough.  
  
Something isn’t right, none of this is right and all Moomin is now certain of is that he needs to get to Joxter before something goes further wrong.  
  
Moomin reaches the end of the corridor and turns, shouting as he meets a dead end. There’s no door, no window and no turn. Just another muslin-draped frame. Another mirror maybe and Moomin feels sick looking at it. He thinks of what he saw in the bedroom and terror sparks.  
  
Moomin turns away and sees the corridor stretch out behind him in the opposite direction. Where else could Joxter have gone? He runs down it, nearly outs his candle as he goes. He runs until he finds a door open. Inside, Joxter is sitting on the floor and Moomin stops in the doorway, frightened and out of breath.  
  
‘Joxter…’ he manages before his breath cuts out, something dropping in his gut like a fall.  
  
Joxter is sitting cross-legged on the floor and he’s talking to someone. Someone Moomin can’t see and he raises the poker again, wishing he had more light. Wishing he could see like Joxter can because the dark seems thick like the fog outside, seems to be creeping in close and tight on the pair of them. The air feels very thin.  
  
‘I wouldn’t,’ Joxter replies to a voice Moomin can’t hear. ‘I wouldn’t run from a thing like that.’  
  
Joxter’s tail whacks off the floor with agitation and it makes Moomin jump.  
  
‘Not if I knew!’ he snaps, sounding quite furious and Moomin rushes up to him. ‘If you knew, why didn’t you say? Why didn’t-?’  
  
‘Joxter!’  
  
Joxter jumps to his feet, paw raised with his claws out and he looks like a wild thing Moomin has never encountered before. Moomin drops the poker and flinches, waiting for the blow but Joxter stops before he meets Moomin’s snout, the fury on his face clearing abruptly.  
  
‘Moomin-Moomintroll?’ he says, blinking slow and he looks quite confused. He drops his paw. ‘What are you… what are you doing here?’  
  
‘What are _you_ doing here?’ Moomin replies, near hysterical again. He waves to the room, at the draped furniture and at something that looks like a clock that’s also been shrouded in muslin. ‘We’ve been sick to the teeth over you! I’ve been sick!’  
  
'I'm... right where you left me,' Joxter says slowly, glancing around the room. 'Aren't I?'  
  
'This isn't our room, Joxter,' Moomin says slowly, feeling a looming chill seep in behind him. He tells himself it's from the cold, can't be anything else. But he pictures something reaching... coming close and he almost turns to look before Joxter speaks and stops him.

‘There’s something wrong with this house,’ Joxter says, quiet but fierce. Like a terrible secret. ‘Everything is backwards here.’

‘Backwards?’ Moomin repeats, suddenly aware of the ticking that comes from the covered clock. 

‘All muddled up,’ Joxter continues, tail anxiously swishing. ‘The rooms are like days and tossed up in the wrong order. I keep finding old parts of myself in places I shouldn’t and seeing new part that can’t possibly be.’ 

Moomin frowns. He can’t make head nor tail of that, to be honest. 

‘Yes,’ Joxter says without prompt, turning away from Moomin suddenly. ‘What would you do, Moomintroll? If you found yourself at the end without ever having started?’

‘I guess it would depend?’ Moomin says, baffled as he isn’t following what Joxter is saying at all and he wishes they were back with Hodgkins. ‘The end of what?’

‘Exactly.’ 

With that, Joxter’s ears prick and he turns back, scanning the room. His fur stands on end. Impulsively, Moomin reaches for his paw and holds it. Joxter squeezes back until Moomin feels pins and needles. 

'Joxter, come back to Hodgkins with me,' Moomin asks, implores really. There's something terrible so close. Moomin isn't sure how he knows it but he does and he can't stop flicking his eye to every corner, chest so tight it might snap like a stick as fear of seeing that horrid face swells inside of him. 'We can figure this all out together, eh?'  
  
They both freeze at the sound of something in the hall. It makes Moomin start and he presses in close to Joxter, throwing an arm out automatically to shield Joxter best he can. They both stare into the hallway out the door, pitch black. It's so black with shadow Moomin makes his eyes water trying to make sense of it and he can't breathe, can't speak as his throat is so stung with a fear that seizes him. Again, a noise comes.  
  
It's a rattling. Like a bunch of rather small things all jangling together in a tin box. It sets Moomin's nerves on a fraught edge, heart thundering so loud in his own ears it must be why he doesn't recognise it for what it is at first.   
  
'Joxter,' Moomin says and he nearly weeps with relief, clutching Joxter's paw tightly. 'It's all right. It's Muddler, it's only Muddler.'  
  
The noise of the Muddler stumbling along, his box of knickknacks clattering might be the best thing Moomin has heard since they wandered into this wretched place. Moomin takes an unsteady step forward, Joxter close to him and their tails tangle together behind them.   
  
'Muddler, thanks the stars and anything else, I'm so happy to see you!'  
  
Moomin stops dead in his tracks and Joxter hisses, spits like something wild and caught in a trap as they get to the door.  
  
It's not the Muddler. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a big portion of this in the AO3 box and then it failed to save... I am a clown... 
> 
> So I had to write it again RIP

Moomin runs.  
  
He pulls Joxter along with him as they both bolt in the other direction, further into the room. The clock chimes from under its cover and the whole air feels alive with a shrieking, scraping wail. That… _thing_ in the hall has opened its mouth. Moomin holds the candle out in front of him, desperate for a way out.  
  
There’s a door, pressed tight and almost unseen against the far wall and Moomin heads straight for it.  
  
‘Moomintroll, what-?’  
  
‘Don’t think about it! Don’t even look!’ Moomin replies manically, throwing himself against the door and yanking it open. It swings and wallops off the wall, but Moomin doesn’t stop and he drags Joxter after him.  
  
They’re in a dining room now. Paintings covered on the walls and all the chairs pulled in and out, as though the last party had here had ended in a hurry. Moomin runs through it, too terrified to dare look behind him. He flicks his ears though, tries to listen for that thing. All he can hear is rain on the windows, Joxter’s boots. Is it close? Is it fast? Moomin is so scared he nearly drops the candlestick.  
  
They run to the next door and both crash into it, Moomin’s stomach dropping with icy horror as he realises the door is locked.  
  
‘No, no,’ he says desperately, turning the knob fruitlessly and banging on the door with a fist. ‘Come on!’  
  
‘Moomintroll…’ Joxter squeezes the paw in his own, presses close to Moomin’s shoulder.  
  
‘I’ll get us out,’ Moomin says, pounding the door again. ‘I’ll get us out, I promise. I won’t let it get us.’  
  
Joxter goes very still next to him and all Moomin’s fur sticks up as the temperature in the room suddenly drops. Moomin turns around, chest heaving with short, hurried breaths as the fear grips him. They both look out into the dark, their candle burning low and not very bright. There’s someone else here.  
  
‘Stay back,’ Moomin says, looping Joxter behind him. Joxter resists, but Moomin is stronger.  
  
They both stand against the shut door, shaking and gripping each other as whatever has joined them slinks unseen. Moomin thinks he can hear it breathing, but it’s so hard to say for certain. He remembers what that thing looks like, remembers its gaping mouth like something drowned. He imagines it jumping out at them, too quick to stop-  
  
A noise rattles. The Muddler’s tinbox, or what that thing wants them to believe is the Muddler’s tinbox. The metallic clatter fills the room like rain. Then, suddenly, it stops.  
  
A button rolls towards them from the dark, on its side like a coin. It rolls along the floor and Moomin watches it come, watches as it wavers and spins just before the end of his feet before falling to its side. Moomin stares down at the four holes of it, which stares right back up.  
  
Above them, the din shatters as someone screams.  
  
They both jump from the fright of it and Moomin looks up at the ceiling, falling back so he presses Joxter tight against the door. Was that the Muddler? Moomin isn’t sure, can’t think straight and he feels frozen, feels powerless and scared and-  
  
The door opens behind them and Moomin falls backwards, right onto Joxter who goes first. Their candle goes out.   
  
‘Joxter, mate!’ Moomin says, rolling over and trying not to crush him. Moomin helps Joxter up and then slams the dining room door.  
  
‘What was that?’ Joxter says and Moomin can feel he’s puffed up and shaking. Moomin puts a paw to Joxter’s chest.  
  
‘I don't know, but we need to move before it gets through-’  
  
‘No. Not that,’ Joxter says quietly and Moomin wonders if he looks as scared as Joxter sounds now. 'The scream.'  
  
They’ve fallen back into the foyer, the glow of the gaslights casting long shadows around them. In all the running about, they seem to have come full circle. Moomin looks but Hodgkins isn’t where he left him.   
  
‘Hodgkins must be upstairs with Muddler,’ Moomin says, willing it to be so. He heads towards the stairs at pace, again dragging Joxter behind him like a kit. ‘We need to get out of here.’  
  
‘Get out?’ Joxter repeats and Moomin nods, taking the stairs two at a time and feeling Joxter stumble after him.  
  
'Yes! Out! I don't care how bloody bad the rain is, we can't stay here with that- that-'   
  
Moomin struggles to think of a name for what he saw. Truly, he thinks such a thing couldn't even have one for who could ever want to give a voice to something as dreadful?  
  
They make it back upstairs and head to the bedroom, stopping in the door to see both the Muddler and Hodgkins within. The window has been broken and glass scatters over the rug, rain blowing in and the wind all the louder for it. The storm has filled the room like water.

'What happened to you?' Hodgkins shouts to Moomin and Joxter as they come in. Moomin quickly shuts the door behind them, groaning when he finds no key in the lock. 'You can't just run off like that! Either of you, for that matter!'  
  
'We heard a scream,' Joxter says, sounding very dazed. Airy almost, compared to the panic in Hodgkins. Hodgkins frowns.   
  
'That was Muddler,' he says, looking down at where the Muddler is clutching at his arm, pan pulled low over his eyes. 'The window broke. Gave him a fright.'  
  
'It didn't just break!' the Muddler says, teeth chattering. He presses so close to Hodgkins Moomin thinks that if he could get away with hiding in his uncle's coat, he might. 'Something broke it.'  
  
'Yes, the storm-'  
  
'No,' the Muddler says, tipping his pot back and Moomin can see how wild his eyes are now. 'That... that _thing _is not natural.'  
  
'You saw it, too,' Moomin says and the Muddler looks at him, nodding but deeply upset still. Hodgkins huffs, looking to Joxter but Joxter is no help to anyone it seems. He walks over to the broken window, getting soaked by the rain. Moomin wishes he'd stay closer. 

'Saw what?' Hodgkins asks and Moomin tightens his grip on the door handle- the only thing stopping something from walking in. If it even walks.   
  
'There's something else in this house,' Moomin says, feeling sick as he remembers what he saw. The gruesome twist of its mouth. 'It tried to get Joxter and me.'  
  
'So that's what happened to you? You got caught by this something?' Hodgkins says, turning to Joxter now. Joxter doesn't seem to be paying much attention, staring out into the rain and thunder. 'Joxter, can you hear me?'  
  
Moomin may not understand Joxter's Forebodings, but if he were, he thinks it would feel awfully like the stone-heavy feeling he gets in his gut looking at Joxter's back.   
  
'Joxter!' he calls but Joxter doesn't turn to him. His ears don't even twitch. 'Stay away from there!'  
  
There being by the window. Joxter has gone right up to where it's broken, an empty space where the glass should be and Joxter's coat swirls up with the wind that blows in.   
  
'What's up with him?' the Muddler says and Moomin bristles.   
  
'We need to leave,' Moomin says to the room and the Muddler nods as Hodgkins grimaces.  
  
‘And where would we go?’ Hodgkins asks and Moomin fumes, as that’s the question he doesn’t have an answer to. ‘The path is under six feet of water!’  
  
‘Then we’ll swim!’ Moomin replies desperately. ‘But we can’t stay here! There’s something wrong with this place.’  
  
‘There’s something wrong with Joxter, too,’ the Muddler says as though Joxter isn't here and Moomin rounds on him instantly.  
  
‘It’s not his fault!’ he snaps and the Muddler jumps from it. ‘It’s this house. It’s not good for him. Hodgkins, you know I’m right.’  
  
Hodgkins opens his mouth to reply but they’re all interrupted by a knock on the door. They turn as the maid lets herself in, revealing herself at last after what feels like hours. Moomin stalls, stares down at his paw and where he grips air. When... when had he moved? When had he let the door go?   
  
The maid stands in the doorway with her pinafore, a candlestick in her pale hand and a blank expression on her face.  
  
‘Who closed the front door?’ she asks and it’s so bizarre a question, so unexpected, none of them answer. ‘You shouldn’t have closed the front door.’  
  
‘It blew open with the storm-' Hodgkins starts to say but the maid keeps talking like he’s said nothing at all.  
  
‘You shouldn’t have closed the front door,’ she says firmly and she looks right at Moomin as she says it, like somehow she knows. Moomin gets a chill. ‘You’ve let something get stuck.’  
  
‘The only thing stuck is my patience,’ Moomin retorts and he moves quickly as the maid walks in, putting himself firmly between her and where Joxter is standing. ‘Stay away from him.’  
  
The maid looks over Moomin's shoulder, clutches at her chest. Moomin thinks she may have a medallion under her pinafore and it only serves to frustrate him more.  
  
Does she expect him to think her innocent, to think her scared? She let them in this house and wants Moomin to think that she didn't know what was in here?  
  
'You knew that thing was in here,' Moomin accuses, pointing the paw that was holding the door at the maid. Her pale eyes drop to it, doesn't even look phased by Moomin's anger which boils hot.   
  
'Nothing here that ain't supposed to be passing through,' she says and Moomin grits his teeth, frustration growing. 'You're passing through, too. But you closed the door. You closed that door and it ain't supposed to be closed tonight.'  
  
'What- what does that even mean?' Moomin asks, not noticing how far he's advanced on her until someone suddenly stops him. Hodgkins has come over and he puts a firm paw on Moomin's shoulder.   
  
'You've let something get stuck,' the maid says again and Hodgkins tightens his grip as Moomin shakes with an anger that feels too big all a sudden. 'Things are scattered this time of year. Things in wrong places. You gotta leave the door open so things can get back to the right places.'  
  
'I swear to-'  
  
'Joxter, don't! Stop!'  
  
Moomin whirls around at the Muddler's shout, just in time to see the Muddler dive forwards to stop Joxter from doing something. The Muddler gets a grip on Joxter's arm from where it had been raised, clinging to it like a squirrel to a branch. Moomin sees a flash of something in the Joxter's paw.  
  
Joxter swings the Muddler around and, shorter creature that he is, the Muddler flies against the bed. Moomin can see now Joxter has a shard of glass in his paw; he's clutching it so tightly, there's blood. Moomin runs over to him.  
  
'Joxter, snap out of it!' Moomin says, frantic and he gets his paws on Joxter's, wrenching the glass from it. Moomin drops it to the ground, gets Joxter's blood on his paw. 'What on earth are you doing?'  
  
'Doing?' Joxter repeats, blue eyes blank. Moomin feels as though his heart is about to crawl out of his throat with fear as he looks at him. 'I'm not doing anything.'  
  
'Wha... you could've hurt yourself!'  
  
'Hurt myself?' Joxter laughs but it's nothing like what Moomin has heard before. This isn't breathy, casual or warm. This is hurried, high-pitched. 'No, I wasn't going to do that.'   
  
'Then what were you doing with it? That glass?' Moomin asks, getting a bit frantic with how strange Joxter seems. Moomin is used to Joxter looking at him with such clarity.  
  
Joxter shakes his head, still smiling. Like a mad thing. 'You're talking such nonsense, Moomintroll. Really not very like you at all.'  
  
Moomin looks at Joxter's paw. He's cut himself deep.   
  
'You're not yourself,' Moomin says firmly and Joxter stiffens, eyes going narrow. His tail flicks behind him.   
  
'And you would know, would you?' Joxter replies, a cruel lilt to his voice Moomin hasn't heard before. Joxter stands to his full height, not quite taller than Moomin but he seems so in this moment. 'Noticed that much in your noticing?'  
  
Joxter leans close, bares his teeth and they seems so very sharp. Have they always been so?  
  
'Our clever Moomintroll,' Joxter says and Moomin recoils, a terrible feeling overcoming him. Something radiates off Joxter like a sickness that palls. 'With your books and your maps. Guiding us all the way home. You want to take me home, don't you?'  
  
'You're... you're not making any sense,' Moomin says, dreading.   
  
'You want me to make sense,' Joxter says to him, stepping forward as Moomin steps back. 'You want to pull my edges in until I can fit in your pocket.'  
  
'You're not Joxter,' Moomin replies, unsteady and sick. The thing with Joxter's face smiles again and Moomin turns cold, wondering how he could ever have made the mistake. 'You're not at all, are you?'  
  
There's a crash, a horrid and shattering bang from below.   
  
Moomin jumps and lightning flashes. The Muddler is screaming again and the light blinds Moomin for a moment and then everything is dark. The gas-lights and candles have gone out and Moomin whirls around, blind. He doesn't have Joxter's eyes.  
  
'Moomintroll! Are you still there?'  
  
'I'm here, Hodgkins and-' Moomin reaches blindly forward for where Joxter was. Light flickers and Moomin tries to adjust as the maid scrambles with one of the light fixtures. Joxter is gone. Again. 'Bloody hell!'  
  
Moomin won't let this happen. None of it.  
  
He strides over to Hodgkins and the Muddler. 'Get the packs. I'll get Joxter.'  
  
'But he was- he was right there!' Hodkgins says, for the first time sounding as out of sorts as the rest of them. He goes to move but Moomin stops him with a firm paw to his chest. 'What if he's fallen through the window? We have to find him!'  
  
'I'll find him,' Moomin says resolutely, shoving Hodgkins and the Muddler in tow towards the door. 'Things are- things aren't right in this house. You need to get outside.'  
  
'We're not leaving you behind!'  
  
'It's not safe!' Moomin shouts, losing his temper. He points at the maid. 'You, you get them out, you hear me? Or there'll be hell to pay.'  
  
'You shouldn't have closed that door,' the maid says, shaking her head manically. 'I tried covering all the mirrors, tried to let it pass but you-'  
  
'You get them out, do you hear me?' Moomin repeats, louder and more insistent. The maid startles but then nods. Hodgkins and the Muddler go for their packs as Moomin heads towards the hall. 'Give me twenty minutes. If I'm not out with Joxter by then you go without us, got it?'  
  
Hodgkins looks like he might argue but Moomin doesn't stay to listen.   
  
Moomin runs out into the hallway and heads straight to the stairs. Back towards that hall, where the dark room is. The one he'd found Joxter in at first. It has to have been there, it has to be there where Moomin lost him and Moomin stumbles against the stairs, a sudden weakness overcoming him.  
  
_No, _he thinks and he wills himself to get back up, to make his way down the rest of the stairs. He can't think like that. He won't let himself.  
  
Moomin runs straight to the door of the dining room. He only hesitates a moment, wishing he still had something to use if someone were to jump at him, but he keeps moving. He throws the door open and tries to hold down the scream that he feels his lurking just under his chin.   
  
The dining room is empty. It's no comfort and Moomin runs through it, glancing at the ground where muslin lies. It's slipped from the mirrors on the wall and Moomin doesn't look. He can feel something watching him, he can almost hear footsteps behind him but Moomin knows he shouldn't look.  
  
Moomin runs all the way back to the beginning, but there's no sign of Joxter. He doesn't stop, keeps moving back through the corridors that turn about like a maze because Moomin knows he's being followed. He knows there's something behind him and as long as he keeps moving, he'll keep it there.   
  
It isn't long before he ends up in the foyer again, right at the bottom of the stairs and Moomin turns on the spot, frustrated and frantic. He puts a paw to his head, tugging on the fur there as he struggles to think of what to do-  
  
Something lands on his head, right between his ears and Moomin shouts with fright, stumbling back. He touches his head, feels wet and his stomach drops.  
  
Water. He nearly cries with relief when he holds his paw down in front of him to see it's water.   
  
Moomin looks up, up at the gallery of the staircase and sees something moving along the banister like a shadow. Moomin's heart thunders inside his chest like the storm.   
  
Joxter is up there. Moomin can see the ends of his coat, the shine of his boots and the shadow of his tail as he walks there and Moomin is running before he can think anymore about it.   
  
'Joxter, what are you doing?' Moomin says when he makes it to the turn of the stairs, pausing in fear as he sees Joxter.   
  
Joxter is balanced on the banister on the landing, walking along it like a tight-rope artist in the circus. He's got his hat back, his head titled up and he's soaking wet. Water drips off his coat and falls the very, very long way down to the foyer.   
  
Moomin takes another step up and Joxter takes another himself along the bannister. His boots squeak on the wood and he has both of his narrow arms out as though to balance him. Moomin stops.  
  
'It's funny, isn't it, Moomintroll?' Joxter says idly, as though they were both back on the Oshun Oxtra. Lying on the stern and beneath stars. 'Things get so jumbled sometimes, don't they?'  
  
'Joxter,' Moomin says, hesitant. 'We've got to go now. Come down, come down from there.'  
  
'I keep having the strangest sensation I've lost something,' Joxter continues, clearly not taking a word Moomin is saying in either way. 'Have you ever felt like that, Moomintroll?'  
  
'Can't say I have, Jox.'  
  
Moomin takes another step up. Joxter wobbles, looking at Moomin suddenly.   
  
'You haven't called me that yet,' Joxter says and Moomin edges closer. He just needs to get close enough. 'Looks like you're backwards, too. Go too far in the other direction we'll miss each other, Moomintroll.'  
  
'No need to miss anyone,' Moomin says, making it to the landing and putting a shaky paw on the bannister before Joxter's foremost foot where it stands. 'We're both right here. Now, come down to me.'  
  
'To you?' Joxter says, looking at Moomin with his eyes bright even under the shadow of his hat.   
  
'Yes,' Moomin says, offering his other paw up. 'Come to me, please.'  
  
Joxter doesn't reach back. He leans slightly, more towards the great drop down to the foyer and more water drips from his hat all the way down.   
  
'I think I've fallen already,' Joxter says, staring down that way. 'I'm at the very bottom, looking back up at myself and wondering how I slipped in the first place.'  
  
Then, Joxter starts to lean the rest of the way, his slight body starting to fall and Moomin acts on an instinct that pistons inside of him like a rifle's chamber. 

Moomin reaches the rest of the way and tangles his paw in Joxter's sodden coat and _pulls. _  
  
Joxter a light creature and with all Moomin's strengths behind the action, he comes tumbling down quickly in the opposite direction, right down on top of Moomin. They both roll together across the landing and Moomin sees stars he hits his head so hard off the ground.   
  
Moomin gets to his knees, a paw to his head to ease the throbbing. Across from him, Joxter stands and seems somehow taller in the uneven shadows the flickering gaslights cast.   
  
'We need to leave. Hodgkins and Muddler are outside. I'll help you, I know this place has been doing funny things to your head and-'  
  
Moomin stops when Joxter turns, stomach turning and a fear so thick it nearly chokes him as it bubbles up his throat, stunting his words. His blood goes cold like the wind. 

‘You…’ Moomin manages to say at last to the creature before him, paws shaking at his side. ‘It’s you, again.’

This _ thing _ is not Joxter, that much Moomin now knows. It looks like him, oh yes. Very much so. But it isn’t. Moomin knows it the same way he knew there had been someone behind him. The way he’d known someone had been staring in through his bedroom mirror. 

‘Where is he?’ Moomin asks the creature, which looks at him with Joxter’s face.   
  
The thing raises one of Joxter's paws, puts it against his chest. It moves about like something might beneath water, rippling Joxter's skin and Moomin chokes on the retching feeling that brims inside of him.  
  
But Moomin refuses to be afraid any longer. He forces himself up to his feet and takes a large step forwards.  
  
It doesn't back away from him. It stands still as a stone, with its head down. Joxter's hat hides its face but Moomin doesn't need to see to know what its hiding beneath Joxter's whiskers. Moomin has already seen its horrible face.   
  
Moomin gets close enough to touch. He reaches for Joxter's paws, takes one between his own and tries to catch the breath that keeps running out of him. 

‘Please,’ he says, touching the pad of this thing’s paw. The usual tan of Joxter’s palm is shrouded in something like black soot. ‘Give him back. He doesn’t belong to you.’

The not-Joxter stretches out; taller and more gangly, twisting up like a tree and Moomin can hear the creak in its bones as it looms over him. A gruesome noise. 

_ ‘He doesn’t belong to you either,’ _it says, rasping and rattling like someone on the break of a terrible consumption. 

‘Please,’ Moomin says again, more insistent and he wishes so desperately he were taller. Bigger, stronger- anything. ‘Please just give him back.’

_'No,'_ it says and Moomin tightens his grip on Joxter's paw. It's cold to touch and the blood still oozes from the cut. It turns Moomin’s stomach.   
  
'Why do you even want him?'

_‘He’s warm,’_ it says, curling its too-long fingers over Moomin’s paw. Marks black fingerprints there. _‘Warm and soft inside.’_  
  
‘I’ll give you something else,’ Moomin pleads, shaking desperately. ‘A candle, a fire. Anything else warm. But you can’t have him.’  
  
This horrid thing tilts its head, just like Joxter might and the hat tips back. Moomin’s heart seizes in his chest. It’s grotesque how this thing twists Joxter’s face, stretching it out of shape to something unfamiliar. It slips its paw from Moomin’s and instead presses a long, bony finger at Moomin’s chest. Keeps going until it’s poking Moomin there and stalling him.  
  
_‘Will you give what you’d give him?’  
_  
Moomin doesn’t understand, can barely breathe with the closeness of the air never mind think straight. ‘What’s that?’  
  
_‘Warm,’_ it says, taking a breath through its teeth that shivers. _‘Soft. You have it inside for him, like a flame.’  
_  
‘I…’ Moomin shakes his head, confused and scared and flustered. ‘I don’t… I barely know him.’  
  
_‘But you will,’_ it says, pressing Joxter’s claw into Moomin’s chest. He can almost feel it through his fur. Moomin isn’t sure he understands. _‘You will be warm for him. Give it to me instead.’_  
  
‘I can’t give you what I don’t have.’  
  
_‘You have it ahead. Give it to me.’_  
  
Moomin tries to see something known in this face. But there’s nothing of Joxter here. Like he’s been eroded by the rotting, rasping thing that stands before Moomin now and Moomin wonders if it would even be possible to leave without Joxter. He could run, find the others and they could leave with nothing lost from him, even if it hasn’t even been gained yet.  
  
Moomin can’t think that, won’t think that. He wants Joxter back, wants him safe and with him and who cares if he has to give something like a feeling up? Moomin isn’t even sure he feels yet, will he even miss it? But…  
  
‘What would it be?’ Moomin asks, breath misting in front of him. It’s getting colder. ‘If I keep it?’  
  
_‘Warm,’_ is the reply, said so many times now like a mantra. The claw pokes deeper. _‘Warm.’_

Moomin remembers things that haven’t happened. He feels dizzy as he feels a hot sun beat down on him in the South, a paw in his own as familiar now as it is strange he might still be holding it. He smells mugwort burning with pipeweed, looks down to see lather from soap as he washes a scarf. He feels the presence of a body beside him in a small bed, breathing close and pleasant on his chest.  
  
‘How can you know this?’ Moomin feels like his heart might give out, it’s beating so fast. ‘How can you know what’ll happen?’  
  
_‘Scattered,’_ it tells him, teeth sharp. The claw curls in, through Moomin’s fur. ‘_Lost, found. Everywhere.’  
_  
‘But if I give it to you now…’ Moomin thinks, strangely and suddenly, of Joxter sitting on the bed across from him. The angles of his body and the shape of the curls on his head. His heart pulls. ‘It won’t happen at all?’  
  
_‘Lost.’_

‘Lost,’ Moomin repeats, breathless. ‘But if I don’t, you won’t let Joxter go at all and it won’t happen anyway.’  
  
Moomin can’t not get Joxter back. It’s not even an option. And is it really so big a thing to give up?  
  
Something aches about that. Moomin isn’t sure what it is- this feeling. Where it might’ve gone had Moomin and Joxter never come here and he’d been allowed to keep it, but he’s giving it up all the same.  
  
And he is, because if the choice is to keep it or keep Joxter, then Moomin thinks there’s no choice at all.  
  
Some things are simply never to be.  
  
‘You can have it,’ Moomin says firmly, grabbing the creature by the wrist. Holding its paw to his chest. ‘All of it. Whatever it is or might’ve been. Everything. But you have to give him back to me, right now. Do we have a deal?’  
  
The room goes very cold then. Moomin’s breath clouds and the thing in front of him doesn’t seem to breathe at all. Then, it’s like the air itself is shivering and Moomin isn’t sure how but he can see thething slink out of the Joxter like a tide pulling from the shore.  
  
The Joxter shrinks, curls inward on himself and then he suddenly falls forward into Moomin’s arms.  
  
Moomin catches him and holds him steady to himself, gasping as now the air feels so heavy all of a sudden.  
  
‘J-Joxter? Are you well?’ Moomin asks, jostling the Joxter slightly against him but the Joxter doesn’t answer. He seems to be out cold, but Moomin can feel his warm breath on his neck. Moomin bends and shifts, gets one arm under the Joxter’s legs and cradles the Mumrik to him. ‘I got you, fellow. I got you.’  
  
Moomin holds the Joxter close to him, his hat knocking off and hanging by its strap around the Joxter’s neck as they go. Moomin would run if he were fitter, or perhaps the Joxter lighter, but as it is all he can do is hurry as best he can. He heads straight for the front door, where it stands wide open like a wound.  
  
Outside, the rain has stopped though the path is still flooded. The Muddler and Hodgkins stand out in it with all the packs, lantern lit and the water up to their knees. Moomin wades through, tries to keep the Joxter above it but his boots sag into the water anyway.  
  
‘Moomintroll, thank goodness!’ the Muddler cries, rushing forward and reaching for the Joxter’s shoulder. ‘What happened? Is he all right?’  
  
‘He is now,’ Moomin says and the Muddler frets over him, putting a paw to the Joxter’s forehead as though to check for fever. ‘But the sooner we get clear of this place, the better. Here, help me shift him.’  
  
The Muddler helps Moomin turn the Joxter around so he’s on Moomin’s back, arms over Moomin’s shoulders and both of Moomin’s arms under his legs. It makes for easier wading and they all set off. The fog seems to have cleared somewhat and without the rain, Moomin thinks they can survive some water.  
  
The further from the house they get, the better Moomin feels. Which isn’t much, mind but it’s a start.  
  
Eventually, the water starts to recede and the path makes itself known again. Hodgkins fishes out his compass, points them the right way out of the bog and they keep walking until Moomin’s arms start to shake.  
  
‘Let me take him,’ Hodgkins says, putting a stop to their chain.  
  
It takes some manoeuvring, but Hodgkins gets the Joxter onto his own back and Moomin sags as all the adrenaline and purpose he’d felt carrying the Joxter like that rushes out of him suddenly. He’s like a string that’s been cut and the Muddler comes up beside him, catching him when he sways.  
  
They walk until dawn breaks, not daring to pause lest they collapse with exhaustion. The further they walk, the less Moomin really remembers of how they left. Like a dream on waking, things are beginning to slip away. Then, through the peat and the bog grass, a fence appears as though drawn in ink. Wobby, black and a relief.  
  
They reach the end of the path, passing through a gap in the fence where one of the poles has fallen. They stand on the road, the other end of the one they must’ve started on and the sun creeps over them, pink and warm. Through the trees, Moomin can see the outline of houses and the Muddler says he can smell bread.  
  
On Hodgkin’s back, the Joxter starts to move.  
  
Hodgkins helps him stand, as he’s unsteady on his feet. ‘Easy now, my lad. You’ve had quite the run of it, you know.’  
  
‘Where are we?’ the Joxter asks, blinking and replacing his hat on his head to shade himself from the morning sun.  
  
‘Out the other side, thank the stars,’ the Muddler says, coming up to pat the Joxter’s arm anxiously. ‘Are you well?’  
  
‘As much as can be expected,’ the Joxter says, sounding quite dazed still. He looks over and meets Moomin’s eye, face cracking open like a walnut. ‘Oh, Moomintroll!’  
  
The Joxter comes over in two quick strides, tail straight for balance on his trembling feet and he throws both arms around Moomin’s neck. Moomin freezes, unsure how to hold himself with the Joxter this close.  
  
The Joxter must notice, as he pulls back quite quickly and looks nervously to Moomin.  
  
‘Are you all right?’ he asks, putting a paw to Moomin’s face. Moomin smiles, but takes the paw away and presses it back to the Joxter’s own chest. The Joxter frowns.  
  
‘I’m fine, more than now we’re out of that horrible place,’ Moomin says honestly, putting a paw to the Joxter’s shoulder to help him where he teeters a touch. ‘You’re still looking a bit peaky though.’  
  
The Joxter is still frowning. He looks like he might say something, but he doesn’t get the chance as the Muddler comes up next to him and hugs him firmly.  
  
‘We thought you were goner, you know!’  
  
‘Don’t be daft,’ the Joxter says, patting the Muddler on the back though his eyes are still on Moomin. Moomin shuffles awkwardly- the Joxter has such funny eyes, really. ‘It’ll take more than a foul bog to be rid of me.’  
  
‘We almost lost you to it all the same,’ Hodgkins says, wiping at his forehead. He nods his head towards them. ‘Good thing for Moomintroll. He went in after you after that Nakki bewitched you.’  
  
‘Nakki…’ The Joxter looks to where they’ve just come, face now hidden by the brim of his wide hat.  
  
‘Yes, you walked off into the fog! Don’t you remember?’ the Muddler asks anxiously, pulling away to pat at the Joxter’s arm. ‘Moomintroll had to save you from being drowned!’  
  
‘Saved me, did you?’ the Joxter asks Moomin, but he still stares out at the bog. At the mist that rolls there.  
  
Moomin flushes so his fur sticks up on his cheeks. ‘It wasn’t as impressive as all that.’  
  
‘I beg to differ,’ the Joxter says, looking at him then. Moomin isn’t sure what it is about him, but there’s something in the Joxter’s eye that makes Moomin feel like he ought to be doing something. Or saying something particular. As it is, Moomin can’t think of anything. ‘It seems I owe you a great deal.’  
  
‘Nonsense,’ Moomin says, making a big show of getting his pack off the Muddler. He fiddles with the straps and feels the Joxter’s eye on him still. ‘It’s what any of us would do for the other. No good to us drowned, are you?’  
  
‘No. I suppose not. But I’m grateful all the same.’  
  
‘Really,’ Moomin tells him. ‘Don’t mention it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be an epilogue


	6. Epilogue

They settle in an inn for the night. Or rather, most of them do. The Joxter seems far from settled. Moomin and he are sharing a room and Moomin isn’t sure they’ve ever been this much alone but it’s hard to say. He feels sort of dizzy thinking about it too much.  
  
Though maybe that’s just the result of watching the Joxter, who is bouncing from the bed to the chair by the window and back again at a frightful rate.  
  
‘I understand you’ve had a bit of a fright,’ Moomin says, exasperated and the Joxter freezes, puffing up a bit as though caught by surprise. ‘But do you mind anxiously pacing in your dreams? Your boots will keep me up all night at this rate.’  
  
The Joxter flops backwards onto the bed and proceeds to pull said boots off. Moomin watches from where he’s lying in his own bed, baffled but then he so often is when it comes to the Joxter. An odd fellow, at best really. Moomin tries to settle back to his pillow but he can’t. His skin is prickling, all the fur standing on end and he knows why before he even opens his eyes again.  
  
‘Do you need something?’ Moomin asks the Joxter, opening one eye to see that Joxter is indeed staring at him. The Joxter’s whiskers twitch.  
  
‘No, I just- I’m just thinking,’ the Joxter says, anxiously twisting his paws together. Moomin sighs, debating with himself before eventually sitting up in the bed.  
  
‘Always dangerous hearing that from you,’ Moomin says, shuffling back so he can sit against the headboard. The Joxter stares at him, blue eyes wide. ‘Well? Go on then.’  
  
‘Go on with what?’  
  
‘Whatever has you pacing through the floorboards?’ Moomin says, a touch exasperated. He stops himself, tries to be more empathetic but sometimes he rather thinks the Joxter does all this on purpose. ‘You’re not still turned about from what that Näkki did, are you?’  
  
The Joxter opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks away and Moomin frowns, getting the strangest sensation that he’s somehow said the wrong thing. Which is ridiculous as surely that’s a fair question to ask someone who's just been bewitched?  
  
‘Have you ever seen a path ahead of you, Moomintroll, and known where it would lead it you?’ the Joxter asks at last and Moomin stutters, having to derail what he was going to say.  
  
‘That depends,’ Moomin says, a little wary. ‘Are we talking about a real path or one of your funny notions?’  
  
‘Funny notions,’ the Joxter repeats quietly, sounding a little sad. Moomin flushes and again worries if he’s said something he oughtn’t. ‘I suppose we’re talking about that, yes.’  
  
‘So not a literal path?’  
  
‘That’s a matter of perspective,’ the Joxter says which is most frustrating but at least it lets Moomin know that _No, _they are not talking about a literal path like a road. Should've known as much really. ‘I’ve lost sight of a path that was once open to me.’  
  
Moomin shifts in the bed linen, trying to gauge the far away expression on the Joxter’s face. ‘And that’s… bad?’  
  
‘Unexpected,’ the Joxter says and he looks down at his paws. One is bandaged as he'd somehow cut himself out in that bog, much to all their confusion. ‘Of course, nothing is ever really certain. It’s all a question of choice and probability and sometimes, just a funny turn of it. But I usually can see so much clearer and now I just can’t seem to find the path I thought I was on.’  
  
With any other creature, Moomin might’ve worried he was slow in not being able to completely unpack that. But given this is the Joxter, Moomin simply rolls his eyes. The Joxter always says things in the most unhelpful of ways. Moomin think he rather likes confusing everyone on purpose.  
  
‘So, your future has changed? Is that what you’re telling me?’  
  
The Joxter nods.  
  
‘And now you don’t know what will happen?’

The Joxter nods again and Moomin laughs. He can’t help it.  
  
‘Well, welcome to the world the rest of us live in,’ Moomin says, his smile dropping when he sees the serious look on the Joxter’s face. ‘It’s not so bad and who knows? Maybe you’re just spooked and you’ll be back to warning us of rain just like always after a nice rest, eh?’  
  
‘Perhaps,’ the Joxter says and he doesn’t sound convinced. He curls his shoulders up and bends his knees, wrapping his slender arms around them and resting his chin on top. He looks most out of character and Moomin finds it... unnerving.   
  
‘Are you sad about it? This future you think you’ve lost?’ Moomin asks, curious. The Joxter looks at him then and Moomin shivers. Those eyes again; like the Joxter can see right through him.  
  
‘Yes,’ the Joxter tells him and Moomin isn’t sure why, but he’s surprised with the honesty. ‘Yes, I rather think I am. My own fault, I was silly to keep my eye so far ahead. Careless, really as it meant I missed things happening now that might’ve saved the future I was so distracted with.’  
  
‘Was it a nice future?’  
  
‘I think it would’ve been,’ the Joxter says, more to his knees and the words a little muffled. His ears are drooping and Moomin wonders what it might’ve been for the Joxter to be so disappointed over losing it. ‘But gone now.’  
  
‘Can’t you just- I don’t know, tweak your present about a bit and get it back on track?’ Moomin suggests, struggling to even make sense of what he’s suggesting as when it comes to the Joxter and his Forebodings, Moomin is never entirely sure of anything. He's not even sure he understands how they work in the first place.  
  
The Joxter shakes his head and seems resolute on that.  
  
‘Well then,’ Moomin says with a shrug. ‘Guess you’ll just have to carry on with what you got, won’t you?’  
  
‘Guess so,’ the Joxter says though he doesn’t sound happy about it.  
  
‘And who’s to say whatever unknown future ahead of you won’t be better anyway?’ Moomin says, trying to cheer him up. ‘I have no idea what’s coming but you don’t see me fretting. Might be good for you, to have to wing it like the rest of us.’  
  
The Joxter just hums in reply and Moomin falters, wondering what else he might say to help but truthfully, Moomin thinks nothing he can say will help right now. He settles back down into the bed, lies on his pillow and stares across at the Joxter who still sits.  
  
'So, have you no Forebodings at all?'  
  
'This is not a Foreboding. Those are very specific.'  
  
'Right,' Moomin says, thinking on that. 'So this is just some other future thing you saw?'  
  
'I didn't see it,' the Joxter replies tightly and Moomin huffs, not having meant to offend. 'It doesn't work like that.'  
  
‘How does it work then? And if you can't see anything, how do you even know you lost whatever it was you were looking forward to?’ Moomin asks, wondering about a great deal. The Joxter doesn’t answer for so long, Moomin thinks he might not at all but then, the Joxter speaks at last;  
  
‘I don’t see things like you might read a book. It’s not simple like that,’ the Joxter says, quiet and thoughtful. ‘It’s not a window I can look through. They’re more like… impressions. A bunch of very little somethings all jumbled about.’  
  
‘Scattered,’ Moomin says, thinking aloud and then he frowns. He’s getting the strangest sense of deja-vu, like they’ve had this conversation before. But surely, Moomin would remember that?  
  
‘Yes,’ the Joxter says, sounding surer. ‘They’re scattered.’  
  
‘And what impressions do you-‘ Moomin tries to think of a word other than _see._ ‘-feel now?’  
  
‘Loss,’ the Joxter replies, curling tighter into himself. ‘Sadness. Grief.’  
  
‘Right, a barrel of laughs ahead then,’ Moomin says to that, most put off.  
  
‘But love, too,’ the Joxter says, ears perking up a bit. ‘That’s still the same. Just in a different place now.’  
  
‘Love?’ Moomin can’t help but be curious. ‘Who’s fallen in love?’  
  
‘I like how you say that,’ the Joxter says to him and Moomin blinks at him, confused. ‘Fallen in love. Like it’s an accident.’  
  
‘Well, isn’t it? Doesn't seem the type of thing one does on purpose. Not very romantic,’ Moomin says to that and the Joxter shrugs. ‘Not that I’d know much myself. Never been in love.’  
  
‘No?’  
  
‘No,’ Moomin says and he laughs to himself. ‘Doubt I ever will, to be honest. Seems like an awful lot of bother, doesn’t it? But then again, maybe bothersome love just sells more books and that’s why it’s all I know. Only read about it, you see.’  
  
‘I’ve been in love,’ the Joxter says and that takes Moomin completely by surprise. ‘Or I might’ve been.’  
  
Moomin shouldn't be surprised, yet; ‘You don’t know?’  
  
‘Not yet,’ the Joxter says and he finally uncoils, seemingly having talked himself out. He flops down onto his own bed, tossing his hat aside as he goes. ‘I wonder what you do with love if it has nowhere to go though. I have a lot of it, I think but it was all for something that won’t happen now. What do you do with love that lingers like that?’  
  
Moomin honestly has no idea. ‘Find somewhere new to put it, I guess?’  
  
The Joxter doesn’t talk again. He rolls over in his bed, his back to Moomin and goes very still. Moomin watches him for a very long time, suddenly feeling quite awake. The Joxter is so solitary a creature, after all. Moomin is struggling to imagine him doing anything as fanciful and involved as falling in love with anyone.  
  
Though knowing the Joxter, which Moomin must admit he doesn’t all that much, who’s to say the Joxter doesn’t see love as one more thing to navigate? Like his Forebodings, or like the stars over his head. Perhaps the Joxter simply thinks he's in love when really it's something very different.   
  
Moomin doesn’t fancy that much himself. He hopes that if he ever were to fall in love, not that he expects to, he hopes it isn’t as fickle a thing as Mumrik appears to be. Moomin rolls in his bed, stares up at the ceiling and thinks about the kind of love he might want if he were to get it.  
  
Moomin thinks he’d want someone steady. Someone round and soft, with warm paws and a kind smile. Moomin isn’t sure what kind of creature would love someone like the Joxter, awkward as he is. But Moomin supposes he isn’t too bad. He’s clearly got something of a soft centre and Moomin appreciates that.  
  
Maybe there’s hope for this friendship after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they were sadly doomed by canon before they even started

**Author's Note:**

> www.boorishbint.tumblr.com


End file.
